


so far from being free

by targaryenstyrell



Series: so far from being free [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don’t copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It, Infidelity, POV Sansa Stark, POV Theon Greyjoy, Political Alliances, Robb Lives, The King in The North, theon rescues sansa, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 18:12:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 108,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18707293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryenstyrell/pseuds/targaryenstyrell
Summary: It would be an easy lie to say that he had gone after her out of the goodness or his heart or because it was the right thing to do. He couldn't do that though, not when she was looking at him like he was a hero from one of the songs. He did this for himself, not for her.-Theon goes to King's Landing instead of Pyke and everything changes.





	1. so far from seeing home

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to see this fic written, so here goes nothing. This is loosely based on The (Conquered) Hero by TheEagleGirl.

To say he was disappointed would be an understatement. 

For all these years, all anyone would yap on about was how  _beautiful_  the South was, and how the North couldn't  _possibly_  compare to the silks and sophistication of the country's capital. Now that he was here, he didn't see what all the fuss was about. It didn't have a smidge of the allure he'd been promised as a child, and he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would willingly come to a hellhole like this; it looked like shit and smelled of it too. He couldn't take a step without stumbling over some street urchin. Even the dreariest of the Isles had more charm than this city.

Palming at the dirk attached to his thigh, Theon eyed the wares in Flea Bottom, keeping as low a profile as he could. Nothing special, as usual. Southroners wouldn't know practicality if it smacked them in the face.

Everything was jeweled and too fanciful for even his tastes. Theon liked nice things, it was true, but what King's Landing had to offer him was too gaudy and impractical for any man with sense to use in close combat.

Though he supposed it wasn't like any of the knights here actually fought worth a damn, other than the knights of the Kingsguard. Not all of them though, he corrected himself. It was just Barristan Selmy who had been dismissed from the order and Jaime Lannister who was biding his time in chains.

As pretty as the dagger on the counter of the shop was, it wouldn't kill anyone properly. It was hardly fit to cut a slice of bread with, he thought with a snicker. He reached for his pocket, retrieving a bit of fruit he had nicked from the inn earlier that day.

He had enough coin to last another week or so, but only through practicing restraint and discretion. That meant no whorehouses or drunken nights at the tavern for the time being, not if he wanted to do this right. It had been a trial, for sure, and he missed having a woman underneath him.

In the darkest hours of the night, he wondered what became of Ros with her auburn-brown hair and pretty eyes. He didn't love her, no. She was a whore, and a good one at that. But he missed her all the same.

It would do no good if someone recognized him, not when he was so close to getting Sansa and Arya out of the Lannisters' clutches. 

He'd spent about a fortnight in this blasted city, trying to find an opportunity to get into the Red Keep to no avail. The castle was guarded like a bloody fortress, all thanks to that sniveling shit sitting on the Iron Throne. After taking two bites of the peach he had been saving, Theon wiped at the juices dribbling out of his mouth. The commotion was supposed to start anytime now.

The smallfolk had been chattering about it all day, whispering about finally getting the king's attention and giving him his comeuppance for feasting while the poor starved. They all seemed to blame the Imp too, but Theon wasn't about to start questioning it. All Lannisters were scum if he had anything to say about it. 

Everyone quieted, and Theon knew it was nearing the time to act. He shoved his way forward so that he could catch a glimpse of what was happening.

Theon sneered at the horses trotting down the street, immediately catching sight of a yellow head of hair. He clenched his fists at his side, praying to the Drowned God for some self-control. What he wouldn't give to beat that boy 'til the life left his eyes. Or to take that scrawny neck of his with one swing of his sword. It would be fitting to give Joffrey a death like that, after what he'd done to Lord Eddard.

Queen Cersei was walking with her head held high and her daughter pulled close to her. Her grip looked more painful than motherly, and for a moment she reminded him of his own father, Lord Balon. Theon's eyes raked over the Queen's body appreciatively before reminding himself to come to his damn senses. That woman was a brother-fucker who'd likely had a part in the murder of the man who had been a father to him.

She wasn't such a beauty anymore, not now that he was looking at her with that in mind.

Then he spotted the prize he'd come here for. Trailing behind the Queen's retinue was Sansa Stark, a troubled look in her eyes and hair drawn up in that Southron style she'd always raved about as a child. Not that Theon had listened much to her ramblings about the latest fashions, considering he'd had better things to do than listen to a thirteen-year-old girl coo about the fancy things she wanted.

She wasn't thirteen anymore, that was for sure.

It had been over three years since Lord Eddard left Winterfell with his daughters at his side. She looked unspeakably sad, her unhappiness aging her beyond her years. He couldn't imagine that she'd want to be royalty now, not with her father's murderer as her intended. Judging by the look on her face as she trailed behind Joffrey, he was right on the mark. They heard little about how she'd been treated in her time as a hostage, which was worrying to say the least.

Gods, they hadn't even heard a thing about Arya since Lord Stark's arrest.

Theon's lip curled as he tried not to assume anything about the conditions here, what with a mad man like Joffrey in power. 

He made a mental note to remember her dress, pale pink with an oddly-placed golden belt fastened across the middle. It was a pretty gown, he thought. Flattering to her figure. When she disappeared around the corner with a flock of ladies behind her, Theon's brows furrowed.

Where was little Arya Underfoot? The girl he remembered was a tiny thing, so perhaps she'd just slipped his notice. Surely he'd just missed her. 

 _Probably while I was gawking at her sister_ , he cursed himself. No matter- once he'd spirited Sansa out of there, he'd find the little wolf soon enough. Unless... what if she wasn't invited to this? He supposed she might've stayed inside considering she wasn't meant to marry any of the Lannisters. Arya was more a prisoner than anyone here, without the misleading titles of 'betrothed' or 'future Queen' to protect her. 

Soon enough, the entire line of the royal procession were leaving the slums behind to make way for the dock to see the Princess off. Theon made sure to follow close by, shuffling along the cobbled stones a good distance away from the guard. He'd be utterly humiliated if a white cloak threw him into the black cells before he could even begin his rescue effort. Theon would be the laughingstock of House Greyjoy if this was how he died.

As the minutes passed, Theon realized that this may be his only chance to infiltrate their guards before the upcoming siege. With Stannis Baratheon on his way to seize the city, there was no knowing how hard it would be to leave King's Landing in a few weeks time. Was it too soon, though? He’d never live it down if his lack of patience was what damned him. Theon had the pathway to the beach memorized, knowing exactly where to run so that there wouldn't be confusion when the time came. He had no room for error, not when this was concerned.

If he fucked this up, Robb wouldn't ever forgive him. Going home empty-handed wasn't an option either, not when he'd ignored his king's order to go to Pyke. It would just be proving Lady Catelyn right for not trusting him in the first place.

It wasn't that he didn't want to go -oh, because he  _did_ \- but that there was no glory in it for him. Even though he'd been the one to suggest it, he had barely gotten on his way before an idea occurred to him. Was he the future Lord of the Iron Islands and the only living heir to Balon Greyjoy, or just some green messenger boy delivering a letter from his king with his tail tucked between his legs?

He'd go to Pyke someday, he assured himself all those weeks ago once he started second-guessing the decision. He'd go but not before he was ready. He wanted to be welcomed there like a king, not like the spoiled child he knew his father would think him to be.

The ironborn were harsher and more critical than any Northerner. He wouldn't go back until he earned their respect by paying the iron price. After the war had ended, he'd present his earnings to Father and would surely receive the hero's welcome he had been dreaming of since he was a boy.

No longer would Theon be a ward of the Starks, but a conqueror in his own right. Maybe he'd even usurp his father if he felt like it. The thought made him smirk. The next time he saw Lord Balon, he'd be a man in truth. A hero with iron and salt in his veins. And when he saw Robb, he'd be the man that saved his sisters' lives all by his lonesome. They'd write songs about him, he wagered. The Damsel Savior, Theon Greyjoy, the Mighty Kraken, the Lion-Slayer.

He had been imagining it since he first set sail for the capital; him standing there victoriously and Robb looking at him with admiration while Lady Stark hugged her daughters close to her. She'd weep tears of joy and thank the gods for Theon, begging him to forgive her for every nasty look she had gifted him with in his childhood.

In his fantasies, Robb would give him a holdfast and lands of his own in due time, one in the heart of the North. Mayhaps he'd even grant him a kingship someday far in the future. The King of the Iron Islands. His heart sped up at the prospect.

He gritted his teeth with determination at the picture he'd painted for himself. He missed Lord Stark, he did, but now that he was gone and the realm was thrown into war, there wasn't a need for Theon to act as a ward so much as an advisor to the King in the North anymore. With Lord Stark dead, he could finally act as a friend and advisor to Robb rather than a glorified hostage. He knew Robb would see that when he came back to Riverrun with Sansa and Arya at his side.

Theon pushed passed a few peasants, trying to get to the front of the hostile crowd that was beginning to build up close by. He was alert, realizing that what was to come wouldn't be pretty. This was exactly the opportunity he had been waiting for when he'd been sitting on his ass in this shithole for two weeks.

"Hail Joffrey."

Theon's ears perked up at the sound of a man shouting empty praises at the 'king' from a distance. 

"Hail to the King," another voice chimed in, the undercurrents of the words causing Theon to reach for his dagger once more. Just in case. 

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace." A man sneered from the other side of the procession, at the top of the walls. He still couldn't see anything, Theon flushed with anger. He forced his way to the front of the mob, trying to catch a glimpse of Sansa so he could do this and get it over with.

A mumbled word from across the street and then-

"Bastard!" 

"All hail the King"

Theon's lips quirked upwards, his legs moving of their own accord as he tried to keep up with Clegane from where the man was guarding Joffrey. Sansa was right behind him, her eyes downcast with two girls clinging to her sides.

She paid them no mind, a ghost of the girl Theon remembered from Winterfell. What had happened to her here, to make her lose that excitable girlishness that had irritated him so often when they were growing up? What had they done to her?

"He's a bastard!" A distant voice accused where another pleading one shouted something from closer by. "Please, Your Grace, we're hungry!"

"Bread!" One began chanting to Theon's side. He cast the man an annoyed look, slipping away from him and closer to where the Imp was walking -heavily guarded, of course- so as to not draw so much attention to himself.

"Please, Your Grace, we have no food!" A grimy-looking woman wailed from above the walls.

"Bread, Your Grace, please!" Another voice interrupted hers, the building sound of anger and screams drowning out all sensical words.

Now, all Theon heard was the beginnings of a riot. His heart raced as he tried to come up with a plan better than the half-formed one he thought he'd execute before he actually got this far. The boy king keeled over as someone shot something -was that a pile of dung?- at his face.

His sworn shield, the Clegane beast with half a face, drew his sword and took a protective stance next to the bastard. Joffrey was shouting something that Theon couldn't bring it in himself to pay much mind to, not when a gold cloak was already starting to beat a peasant half to death. Theon drew a breath, readying himself for the challenge about to come.  This was his test; what separated him from being a hostage green boy from a hero in the stories to come.

One chance. 

"-find who did that and bring him to me!" The king could be heard shrieking, provoking the crowd unintentionally. The group got rowdier, Theon noted with frustration, trying to keep his sights on the pale pink gown stopped in the middle of the street now.

If people could stop fucking pushing him, that would be great.

"KILL THEM ALL!" Joffrey wailed as a man next to Theon took a punch from a Kingsguard. He feinted left so that the fist didn't hit him square across the jaw, trying to remain alert so that he could swoop in and out.

He still had to find Arya, so this had to happen quickly. Paupers were attacking the Lannister guard without hesitation now, and for a panicked second, Theon lost sight of Sansa.

Theon glanced left, standing on the tips of his feet so he could get a better view. His lip curled to see the High Septon -or someone dressed like one, at the very least- being devoured by the poor.

Gods, this city was the worst place Theon had seen in his entire life.

People were running back and forth, the sudden chaos causing his mind to reel in panic. If Sansa died while he was right  _there_ , he'd never forgive himself. Cersei Lannister was being rushed into the wheelhouse at the end of the street, he noticed, and her vicious bastard wasn't out in the open anymore.

Theon felt panic spike inside of him. He couldn't fuck this up, not this far into the game.

Cheers sounded behind him as he saw the distinctive color of Sansa's dress and hair once more, her shrill screams causing his ears to perk up. He hadn't heard that voice in so long.

Another girl who was with her pushed her way into an alley, Sansa following after her in what was probably the worst turn of events to happen yet.

Theon lunged forward, forcing his way through the people gathered around so that he wouldn't lose sight of her. 

Bodies were shoving into him, some dead and others thirsting for more bloodshed. Three men surrounded her and Theon only saw a flash of light pink as she made a break for it. 

Theon gripped at his dagger and pushed his legs as fast as they could go. His shoulder hit the narrow wall as he scrambled after the elder Stark sister, his blood pumping all while the chase continued.

They ended up in a hovel soon enough, dirt and shit staining the walls.

Theon could hear Sansa panting and crying as the men caught up to her, the sharp sound of a slap and the tearing of fabric pushing him forward all the more determinedly.

She couldn't get hurt, not while he was right _here_. 

He grunted as he shoved his blade into the back of the dark-haired man's head, withdrawing it immediately upon getting it through. Yanking it out took a strength that the adrenaline of the situation gifted him with as blood sprayed over his face and neck.

He parried to slice at the bald one's throat before he knew what hit him. The one that was grabbing at her hands made a dash for the door, to which Theon threw his blade into the man's back. When he fell, Theon rushed over to him and yanked the dagger out of his body. He was disgusted to the bone. Blood squirted in all directions but he paid it no mind as he rushed back to Sansa's side. All that mattered right now was that she wasn't hurt. 

When their eyes connected, the world stopped for a moment. 

He thought he heard something shuffling out of the room, but didn't pay it any notice. It was probably just one of the men he hadn't killed well enough or a peasant who thought better of walking into a room with three corpses strewn about the ground. For all that he had imagined this coming to pass, he had never realized how much relief he would feel at being so close to her. This girl had been raised alongside him and he had been so sure that she was lost forever when Robb received her letter asking him to bend the knee.

Sansa's eyes widened in recognition, and she mouthed his name though nothing came out. A cross between a whimper and a sob left her mouth when his hands reached for hers.

Poor girl, she was trembling like a leaf. 

"It's just me, Sansa." He assured her, trying to gauge if she was capable of leaving with him. If she couldn't get her bearings together right now, taking her back out into the riot was a death wish for the both of them. "It's just me."

Theon knelt to gather her in his arms, truly terrified that they could still die in this miserable city. No matter how long it had been, she would always be the little girl he'd met at the courtyard of Winterfell all those years ago when Lord Stark brought him back from Pyke, wide-eyed and fanciful without a bad bone in her body.

His carelessness almost lost Sansa her life today. If he didn't salvage this right now, she could die before ever seeing her family again. 

Her hair was half torn-down, a cut sliced across her cheek. It wasn't too deep, thank the gods, so it wouldn't scar. Her dress had ripped a tad, but he remedied the way she stuck out like a sore thumb by wrapping his cloak around her. He concealed the bright fabric of her gown as best as he could, tugging the hood over her head to hide her hair.

Sansa had never been a wallflower, that was for sure. This would be a great deal easier if she wasn’t so noticeable. Sansa leaned into him, her eyes reeling as she checked behind him for any other intruders. 

"Theon," she breathed, this time a faint sound actually leaving her throat. He hushed her and drew her close to him, worried that one of Joffrey's men would come to find her any second now. They didn't have much more time, he thought to himself, to which he scrambled back into position.  

He had gotten blood on her but she didn’t seem to mind much in the face of death.

"I'm taking you back," he whispered urgently and she nodded frantically with understanding. "Where's Arya?"

Sansa croaked a response as Theon helped her up so that they were both crouching on the ground. "Gone. She ran away when Father was arrested."

Damn the Lannisters. Damn them all to the deepest of the seven hells. 

"You're sure?" He asked hesitantly, not wanting to abandon the other girl if there was even the slightest chance she could be here.

As soon as Sansa nodded, he wasted no time in pulling her along so that they could exit the alleyway through the other side, just in case any Kingsguard were lurking nearby. In the disorder of the riot which was growing larger by the second, it was easy to get through the passageways unseen.

They were running through the city for what felt like hours, her exhaustion plain in the way Sansa was stumbling after him.

When they reached a rocky bit of land, Theon released her hand to drag the rowboat closer to shore. She got in with no delay, her eyes wide with terror when he pushed the boat into the water and grabbed the paddles. He hoisted himself over the edge, the boat swaying a little bit as soon as he had settled in and began rowing with all of his strength.

He couldn't be confident that they were safe until they were on-course for Maidenpool.

No matter how his arms ached or protested, he continued paddling until they had found their salvation: a small ship with hole-filled sails that he had nicked from The Crag as soon as he'd left Riverrun. The skeleton crew he had hired at the port lowered a ladder down dutifully, to which he exhaled in relief. If they had abandoned him, this whole plan would have gone to shit. He supposed he was just grateful that every man serving Robb wanted to be a hero when saving their Princess of the North was concerned.

When Sansa looked at Theon for reassurance, he nodded curtly. She struggled to climb up, shaking the whole way there but he could hardly blame her. She wasn’t built for this sort of thing, no, not under this kind of pressure. She made do all the same, he noted as she scrambled on top of the ship.

Theon tried not to let the lack of a second sister sully his mood. Robb would be thrilled that he had Sansa back at all, he reassured himself as he followed suit.

Robb would be interested to know that the Lannisters had been lying about having Arya in custody. Where could the little bugger have gone? Theon couldn't believe she was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, no, she was too scrappy for that. He couldn't let himself believe it.

He supposed it wasn't his problem anymore, not unless Robb said otherwise.

* * *

"Where are you taking me, Theon?" Sansa asked at last, staring resolutely into her cracked mug of spiced wine. 

It had been hours since they boarded the ship, but Sansa hadn't felt like speaking to him much at all until they were decidedly far enough away from Blackwater Bay that she knew this wasn't a trick. She was wearing ill-fitting garments that belonged to the smallest man on board, the drab clothing presumably more comfortable than the pretty wrap-dress she'd been wearing when they had fled. Her woolen grey tunic was far too large for her frame, and the breeches she wore looked enormous on her, a comical sight in truth. Her hair was loose now that she had cleaned herself up a little bit, and her wound stopped bleeding long ago.

Now she only looked worried. It did disappoint him a bit, that she was reacting like this and not like the Sansa he used to know.

That one would have fawned all over him and thanked him profusely for his rescue.  _Brave ser_ , he could almost hear her addressing him in how he had dreamed this moment would go. This Sansa just looked numb to the world around her, so much sadder than he remembered.

He bristled at her tone all the more once he realized why she was probably so skittish. Did she think he'd gone through all the effort of finding and freeing her just to ransom her back to her brother? Or worse, make her his hostage? Or his _salt wife_? It hurt to think that she thought so little of him that it seemed a possibility at all. He supposed she didn't have much of a reason to trust anyone though.

He understood how she felt, as a ward himself. He loved the Starks now, but he never wanted to leave Pyke. Theon spent much of his childhood wishing for his mother to come to Winterfell and whisk him away from his captors. It was just as well that she went mad after the rebellion, according to the Northmen who made jabs at his expense in his youth. Lord Stark always made them stop, but he heard their jests all the same.

He'd been forced away from his family by the same King who'd taken Sansa from hers. He supposed they had that in common now. Theon would earn her trust, he decided. He still had time, especially now that they were trapped on a ship together with scarce to do but sit in each other's company.

"We're sailing for Maidenpool," he announced, not trying at all to keep the pride out of his voice. "From there, we'll find safe passage to Riverrun."

Sansa's face was blank and she carefully crafted her response so as to not offend him. "Why aren't we just going to Gulltown then? Surely it's safer to stay with my Aunt Lysa's forces in the Vale instead of traveling by ourselves."

He barked a laugh. "Do you really reckon your aunt gives a damn about us?"

The implications were clear: the crazy bat still hadn't declared for the Starks. The thought had made Theon seethe with anger when Robb first told him. What right did Lysa Arryn have to refuse the call from her own flesh and blood? Her house words were Family, Duty, Honor, but she seemed to be lacking in all three.

"How do you know we'll be safe?" She blurted out and he tried not to grit his teeth at how she was trying to pick his plan apart. Couldn't she just let it be? "Perhaps we should sail straight for White Harbor, Theon. We can ride to Winterfell from there."

He couldn't hold it against her. Theon released some of the tension in his shoulders, knowing better than to get cross with a girl. She probably just wanted to get somewhere safe away from war altogether, and everyone had heard about how war torn the Riverlands had been as of late. 

"We don't have many options, Sansa," Theon sounded defeated for a moment before something flipped within him and he was suddenly jovial again, with a humorous glint in his eyes. "I can get you there, don't you worry your pretty little head about it," he assured her but Sansa narrowed her eyes at the condescension. 

"But-" She began protesting, to which he felt irritation spike through him again. He was going to get a headache if she kept on like this. 

"Are you doubting my navigational skills, Lady Stark?" Theon flashed a toothy grin at her, hoping to coax out one of those bashful blushes that she was known to give whenever he jested with her like this in their youth. He was bewildered to find that she looked...   _frightened_  instead.

"Of course not," she responded quickly to which he became even more confused. The Sansa of old would have spluttered and protested at the jab, perhaps even smacking his shoulder for presuming to flirt with her. 

"We don't have enough food or coin to make it to White Harbor," Theon admitted to her, not knowing what else he could say to justify not going straight to her family's seat. He tamed his smirk into something more subdued- sweet, even. The last thing he wanted was for her to jump out of her skin every time he did so much as look at her, so he would have to start behaving himself.

"We took Maidenpool back after the Battle in the Whispering Woods. It's safe, I promise. Besides, if the Lannisters are looking for you, they're more likely to think you're somewhere on the Kingsroad. Hopefully, they'll think you're dead instead."

Sansa nodded sagely, staring back down into her drink. That was all she had to say to him, it seemed. When Theon went back above deck, he felt a little lighter. 

* * *

On the second day of their voyage, Sansa and Theon broke their fast together. 

The bread and porridge they ate left him wanting, but it was still food at the end of the day. They were sitting around a small wooden table, Theon's knees knocking together with every push the sea gave their ship.

He had dominated the conversation so far, jumping from topic to topic whenever it appeared that she lost interest. Just as he was ready to tell a tall tale about how his uncle fought a kraken off with his bare fists, she interrupted him.

"Did Robb send you to get me?"

He considered lying to her but thought better of it. Something told him that she'd know if he tried to deceive her.

"No," he responded simply.

She'd eventually find out that Theon risked his neck to save her anyhow, and a darker part of him wanted the satisfaction of seeing Sansa grateful for him and angry with Robb. He hoped for some sort of appreciation from the Starks but now wagered that they would chide him for putting their lives in jeopardy instead. If it was her instead of Robb, he'd take the gratitude anyways. He wondered if Robb thought he'd abandoned their cause.

She didn't seem surprised. "Why did you come then?" Her eyes were scrutinizing him and an uncomfortable flush rose to his neck at the attention. She had a way of making him feel like every question was a test or trial that he was being evaluated over. The silly girl she used to be never paid him much mind, usually far off in her own world and singing to herself.

Now she wasn't just looking at him, but she was  _seeing_  him. It made him nervous.

"He told me to go to Pyke to secure ships from my father. I wanted to be a hero instead." He was as honest as he could be, slight boastfulness creeping into his tone as he reminded himself that he had succeeded in his mission. Well, as much as he could succeed with only one girl to save. _You have no right_ , he recalled Robb shouting at him when he had saved Bran's life in the woods of Winterfell. Would he respond in kind to seeing Sansa?

It would be an easy lie to say that he had gone after her out of the goodness or his heart, or because it was the right thing to do. He couldn't do that though, not when she was looking at him like he was a hero from one of the songs. He did this for himself, not for her.

Even so, he could hardly complain at the company of a pretty girl who was hanging onto his every word. Not that he'd ever think of Sansa in that way. Even he wasn't stupid enough to do that. Robb would have his head if he did anything to indicate that he had even looked at Sansa, let alone dishonored her in any way.

As much as she had grown up, she still wasn’t a _real_ woman yet. Not like Ros or Kyra were, with their soft curves and sultry smiles. 

She smiled sadly at him, her spoon dipping into the tasteless meal in front of her. She pushed the lumpy porridge around in her bowl thoughtfully.

"There are no heroes, Theon. In life, the monsters win."

Now _that_  was a change of tune.

His eyes bored into hers, trying to decipher what she meant. He decided not to dance around the issue. "What happened to you, Sansa?"

He genuinely wanted to know. For all his bluster, he cared about her as he did with all of the Stark children. Sansa's glassy eyes met his, her weak smile fading into something more sorrowful, disappearing entirely as he held her stare.

"I've seen the world for what it really is." She answered simply and that was the end of it. 

* * *

She started revealing more to him, little by little. It wasn't much but he supposed it was something.

During their fifth day at sea, he thought he caught a glimpse of Saltpans in the distance. When he called her over and pointed the stretch of land out to her, she almost seemed to forget about her troubles.

Her eyes sparkled as if she were about to cry, a beautiful watery smile gracing her lips she gazed out at the water.

* * *

"Father killed Lady." Sansa admitted, saying the words like she had been thinking them for hours.

Theon had heard about something happening to Sansa's pet on the road, recalling the wolf's bones being returned to Winterfell before Robb’s campaign had begun.

"I was so angry with him. It was Cersei's fault -and Joffrey’s- but I was too stupid to see it. If I had chosen differently, things would be different. I’m sure of it.”

He didn't know what to say to that.

* * *

Later that evening, she was brushing out her hair with great enthusiasm. He didn't know why he was sitting with her other than out of boredom. The crew had everything handled and there was nothing of import to do. 

"He promised me he'd be merciful," Sansa whispered into the darkness of the room.

Theon wasn't sure that he had heard right. He’d been daydreaming when she spoke up, so whatever she said slipped right over his head. "Hm?"

"Joffrey," Sansa's eyes burned with a hatred that he didn't think she was capable of. It took him aback to see her with so much fury in her gentle heart. "He promised me he would be merciful. Then he cut Father's head off and laughed. He said that was mercy, and then he made me look at it."

Only then did Theon regret not going back into the riot and beating Joffrey into a pulp before they made their escape. 

* * *

"Every time Robb won a battle or victory, Joffrey had me beaten in front of the whole court."

She spoke out of nowhere as she mended one of their sails, her eyes focused on the stitchwork in front of her and pointedly ignored Theon's questioning stare.

His heart stopped. She couldn't be serious. He  _beat_  her? Little Sansa Stark, with her romantic dreams and innocent eyes? Sansa, who cried for hours on end when her sister smeared mud all over her nameday gown? Sansa, who wept when her braids came loose at the springtime feast all those years ago?  _Her_?

He couldn't form a sentence, not with so many things running through his head. He ended up not needing to when Sansa continued.

"Robb won a lot of battles." 

Her voice was as soft as could be. She let him take her hand, her eyes never straying from the ground.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Theon murmured finally, unsure of what he could even say to comfort her. Sansa's life at the capital sounded nightmarish, far worse than any spy reports had led them to believe. Robb would be furious when he found out.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" Sansa commented with some humor this time.

The sight made him regret that he hadn’t gone looking for her the moment Ned Stark had been arrested.

"Thank you for coming for me, Theon." She surprised him once more, bits and pieces of her old self shining through in how she looked at him now. The way she said his name sounded like she thought him to be a knight from the storybooks, despite everything she had been through to get here.

"Anyone would have done the same," he responded immediately, knowing better than to be an ass when she was finally starting to enjoy his company. 

"But only you did.” Sansa offered him a rare genuine smile, one that he didn’t hesitate to return in full.

* * *

They hadn't been on land for very long before they ended up in the Stinking Goose. They were pressed close together in the corner of the dusty tavern and although the place smelled something foul, it was a relief to eat some real food for the first time in days. 

"We can't very well send any ravens to them," Theon started, frustrated with himself that he hadn't thought of this as a possibility. The Lannisters held Harrenhal now, so traveling in that direction put too much at stake. He had to figure something out, but couldn't make his mind up on his lonesome. 

"We have two options. Traveling beneath the Isle of Faces or along the Trident." He hoped his inexperience didn't show too much, especially not now that he felt he had impressed her with his bravery.

"Which one do you think is safer?" Sansa inquired, her face souring as soon as he raised her pint of ale to her lips. Theon couldn't help but grin at her overreaction, gulping his own drink down with ease. He could feel her glancing at him with incredulity. She was likely wondering how he could stomach the stuff.

"Not sure," he confessed. "We'll probably run into trouble either way, what with all the bandits hiding out here. The Trident's a surer path, though. It's not like there's much room for error when you're walking along a river."

"How long will it take us?" Sansa questioned. Her hair was oiled so severely that it took on an almost brown hue. It was all they had to work with, especially considering that the natural sheen of her hair would have drawn some unwanted stares. They had to remain out of sight and notice, especially now that there were whispers of Joffrey’s runaway Queen-to-be leaving the city the day of the riot. Damn whichever street rat had seen them board his rowboat. 

Sansa kept her hair back in a practical braid, one that Theon had seen Lady Stark wearing during the war efforts. 

"A few weeks at the very least," Theon frowned. He had enough coin to buy them food for the next few days, but he couldn't make an estimate of how much it would cost to survive until Riverrun on his funds alone.

He cursed himself for not budgeting better when he was in King's Landing, not anticipating how much more expensive things were in the capital. The rates were practically blasphemous, so it was no wonder half the city was starving.

Sansa, ever the dutiful girl, only beamed at him. Riverrun was almost within their grasp now, frustratingly so. "When are we leaving?"

* * *

"Enjoy your stay," the fat innkeeper grunted at Theon as he deposited a sum of coins from his pouch into the man's hands. His money was beginning to run out, he noted with only mild worry. He would deal with that later.

"Come Jeyne," Theon commanded as the pair were directed to their room on the second floor of the inn.

They were masquerading as husband and wife throughout their stay at Lord Harroway's Town, having worked out their false identities on the ride there. She would be Jeyne, a kennelmaster's daughter who grew up in Wendish Town. She explained to Theon that during his tenure as Hand, her father sent Lord Beric to clean the place up. It had been raided by Tywin Lannister's men, thus giving the young newlyweds a reason to be traveling across the region. Theon would be Jeyne's husband Walton, who'd fled to Duskendale with her when their old home was destroyed. Walton planned on joining Robb Stark's cause, hoping to enlist in the Tully army before the next skirmish.

Theon had nicked a sooty horse from some farmers a little distance away from Castle Darry when they passed it days earlier. It wasn’t the fastest steed, but he enjoyed the beast all the same. It was tied up outside of the inn, ready for their continued travels the next morning. Sansa protested to his thievery at first but quieted when Theon promised to ask Robb to pay the men back tenfold once they were safe at Riverrun. He planned on selling the horse if they ran out of money for food, so they couldn't afford not to take it.

She hadn't been as insufferable as he thought she'd be, much to his surprise. She was still wearing the plain clothes that had been offered to her by a septa back in Maidenpool when she had gone to pray, even as it collected dirt, dust, and grime over their journey.

Gone was the spoiled girl that he knew in Winterfell and in her place stood a woman her father would be proud of. Theon wasn't sure when he had genuinely begun enjoying Sansa's company but felt a connection to her all the same. Three weeks spent with just each other tended to have that effect on people, especially with no one else to speak to. Even so, he was grateful for her friendship and trust. Other than Robb, he had never felt like this before- like he was a part of a family.

Sansa eyed the rickety bed placed in the center of the small room with diffidence. 

Theon stripped off his tunic and climbed onto the bed with a wry grin. If he were a better man, he'd offer to sleep on the floor. If he were an honorable man, he'd sleep in another room altogether, though it would give away their deception of being married instantly. It amused Theon endlessly to see Sansa squirm, so he taunted her instead. She protested, of course, to the notion of sharing a bed with a man she wasn't married to.

"It's just a bed, Sansa." He chuckled, turning onto his side so that he was facing away from her. It had been too long since he had slept in a proper bed and he wasn't about to give that up now. Perhaps she'd feel more comfortable if she didn't have to look at his face and recognize the impropriety of it all.

For a little while, he didn't think Sansa would join him. Then he felt the bed dip beside him.

They didn't touch or even acknowledge each other, but there was a comfort to having her so close by. In a matter of seconds, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The clopping of their horse's hooves followed the same rhythm that it had for the past few hours. Sansa had named the steed Maegor days ago, after he nearly threw Theon off when they were nearing Red Fork. An angry name for an angry horse, Theon had joked back at her.

Now she rubbed at her eyes in confusion, eyeing the stormy clouds above them as she came to her senses. How long had she been asleep for? Sansa was tucked into Theon's chest, her body twisted sideways and feet dangling off the side of the horse.

She untangled her arms from his waist and sat up straight, trying not to think on how intimate the position was. It wasn't like they had another choice, not with just one horse at their disposal.

"Where are we?" She questioned, glancing from side to side as she tried to estimate how far they were from Riverrun.

Theon's chest rumbled from behind her, their proximity eliciting a flustered reaction from her. When had she started getting so nervous around Theon? The more time she spent with him, the more she noticed how handsome he was with his stormy eyes and light brown hair and rakish smile-

Sansa scrunched her nose up, willing herself to shove that thought aside.

He was just doing his duty by returning her to Robb, that was all, and it would do her no good to entertain any sort of infatuation with Theon Greyjoy, not when he still gave any girl they encountered on the road a once-over.

She wasn't even sure when she had begun thinking of him in any sort of flattering light and half-suspected that she had gone completely mad. Why else would she start to fawn over _Theon_ of all people?

She learned enough from her time with the Lannisters that her fantasies would drown her if she let them. She'd probably have to be married off for some alliance or another as soon as the war was done so her passing fancies wouldn't matter at the end of the day.

Even so, she couldn't help the way her heart fluttered when he brushed up against her as they rode; all she could do was distract herself with thoughts of Loras Tyrell presenting her with a rose, or Waymar Royce with his graceful dancing and soulful grey eyes. Sansa reasoned with herself that she was just lonely and disillusioned with romance, so any man who acted half-decent to her would seem gallant in comparison to Joffrey.

"Nearing the inn. We should stop in case it rains." She could see him looking up at the sky with worry from the corner of her eye.

"Which inn?" Sansa asked, trying to remember which one Theon had mentioned when they rode around House Roote's stronghold. 

"Kneeling Man," he responded instantly, his hands tugging on the reins of the horse so that they sped up into a light gallop. "You know the stories. Torrhen Stark, the Field of Fire, Aegon the Conqueror, all that rubbish. It's a bit of a shithole, just be warned." 

She sighed, unsure if her expectations could lower any more. Her hair was matted and nasty, though Theon didn't comment on it. More than anything else, Sansa longed for a long bath in the comfort of her own home. 

* * *

She was folding Theon's cloak when he burst into the room, balancing a small feast in his arms. He flashed her a lopsided grin when she sat up a little straighter, her eyes already devouring the food that he was juggling. She hadn't realized how hungry she was that night, not after the hours they had spent in the Inn of the Kneeling Man while the storm raged on outside. She had wrung her hair out over the fire in their shared chamber, pleasantly surprised by how livable the lodgings were at this specific inn. With just a few days to go in their journey, she supposed Theon felt comfortable enough spending their coin on a little luxury.

When Theon said he was leaving to get them food, she hadn't realized it would be this much, not after having to ration so frequently on their journey here. He began setting the meal down on the floor before her to which she analyzed each item with great interest: there were cheeses, two loaves of bread, a plate of strawberries, a saucer of honey, and what looked to be some kind of meat dish, prepared with green peppers and turnips littering the plate.

She almost salivated from where she was sitting, immediately discarding Theon's clothing to kneel on the ground in front of the food. He laughed airily at her enthusiasm, leaving the room briefly to grab at a flagon and two empty goblets before closing the door behind him.

He set the drinks on the ground before reaching into his pocket, pulling out what looked to be precious cargo with a secretive smirk playing at his lips.

He presented her with a powdered pastry, and she heard a gasp leave her. She hadn't had dessert in weeks, least of all something so delicious-looking.

It wasn't a lemon cake, she knew that immediately upon biting into it. It was sweet though, filled with an assortment of berries. 

"Theon!" Sansa exclaimed once she demolished the cake in a matter of seconds, already having licked the remaining powder off of her fingers. He was watching her with thinly veiled amusement as she crawled over to where he had just knelt onto the floor.

Theon was completely blindsided by the embrace she drew him into, her hands squeezing around his shoulders with more enthusiasm than Sansa had ever mustered for him in the past. He smelled like horse and leather but like something else as well, and she savored the feeling as best as she could.

Just a second too late, Theon's arms came around her and drew her closer to him. She exhaled at the contact, forgetting what it felt like to be near someone who cared for her.

No one had hugged her like this since Father's poor attempt at comfort on the Trident the night Lady was executed. She hadn't returned his hug then, not even knowing that it would be the last time he would express any sort of affection towards her in his too-short life.

When they drew back from one another, she allowed herself to look upon Theon. His face was wiped clean of his satisfied smile from earlier, his eyes boring into hers with a vulnerability she had never seen from him before. Now she saw -she finally  _saw_ \- what Robb had seen in Theon for all these years.

For a mad moment, she thought to kiss him. Wouldn't it be so sweet, with the warmth of a fire near them and the pitter-pattering of rain outside?

Theon coughed once and loosened his grip on her, his familiar smirk stamped back onto his face as he gestured at the food in front of them. It was as if the moment hadn’t even happened at all.

Sansa tried not to feel disappointed at how he evaded her expectant gaze, wondering if there was someone else he was keeping close to his heart.

"Well? Aren't you going to say it?" 

Sansa reeled, still dazzled by the thoughtfulness of his small gesture. "Say what?"

"Thank you to the bravest, strongest, most valiant, heroic man you've met in your entire life?" 

"I didn't realize my brother would be joining us," Sansa deadpanned in a rare show of humor that caught Theon off-guard. He placed a hand onto his heart, playing at offended that she would even say such a thing with a pout of his lips. Even so, he laughed and ripped off a large piece of bread and shoved it into his mouth, his full attention now on the meal laying out before them.

* * *

The thump of her heart wouldn't still, not until she went to bed that night with Theon sleeping soundly on the other side of her.

They wouldn't ever lay like this again, she knew as her eyes traced over the planes of his face, and Mother would strangle Theon herself if she was made aware of this arrangement.

Jeyne and Walton were married. It wouldn’t be inappropriate for them to seek comfort in one another, would it? 

They weren’t Sansa Stark and Theon Greyjoy anymore, not here, not now.

Theon didn’t open his eyes but when she scooted closer to him on the mattress, he lifted an arm up to allow her to cuddle up to him. She complied immediately despite everything she knew about propriety screaming at her not to touch him in such a way. Her heart stuttered as she settled in his arms, neither of them speaking a word though Theon’s breathing had become more shallow.

It was misleading for her to do this, but she longed to feel for once what it would be like to sleep beside Theon at night, as a husband and wife would. If he didn’t want her as ardently as she wanted him, why else would he allow them such an intimacy now?

 _It’s for warmth_ , Sansa lied to herself as she burrowed into Theon’s chest, his skin hot against hers through their smallclothes.

She longed to kiss him as sweetly as she had been dreaming of. In her fantasies, he would cup her cheek and stare into her eyes like the prince she had never realized he could be. It didn’t matter whether he was the heir to the Iron Islands or a commoner named Walton with nothing to his name but a horse, because she found that there was nothing in the world so sweet as his touch.

Theon was awake but pretended not to be, likely so they could carry on ignoring whatever had been brewing between them since his rescue effort. In less than a moon’s turn, she found that she had grown miserably infatuated with him. It wasn’t worth denying anymore.

 _Do you feel as I feel, Theon?_ Sansa wondered as his arms tightened around her, cradling her close as if she was some precious thing to him. She rested her head on the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him as they lay together, his warmth radiating onto her.

Lightly, she felt his thumb rubbing affectionate circles around a spot on her lower back.

She knew that her honor would be compromised if anyone knew that she had been held like this by him, but found that she didn't care all that much. What was any of it worth in comparison to how she felt now?

For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel ready to go home yet.

* * *

Sansa's anxieties spiked as soon as she caught sight of Stark banners flying in the air. There were tents scattered all around the castle, reaching farther and wider than she had thought. When they rode across one of the bridges, Northerners watching her with poorly-disguised disgust, she felt confused.

Did they hate Robb? Or Theon? Or  _her_? Why were they staring at her like that? Sansa's heart jumped to her throat, her breath coming out shallowly as she tried to focus her gaze ahead of them, and not at the soldiers whispering about her to each other as they passed them, at a castle she hadn't ever seen before.

Theon was riding behind her, steering Maegor steadily across the stone. He leaned into her the slightest bit, whispering into the shell of her ear as she tried not to shiver at the sensation. "They don't recognize you. They probably think I'm a deserter and that you're my..."

Whore? Wife? Lover? He didn't have to say it for her to know what it meant.

Theon sounded apologetic but pressed on without stopping to talk to anyone. She supposed the soldiers would all feel rather daft when Robb announced her return later on.

They hadn’t spoken about the night at the inn, but something crackled between them every time they met each other’s eyes. Touching him now, with his chest against her back, she had never felt so... _hot_ before. 

She should have felt ashamed, that her fantasies consisted not of maidenly fancies about courtly love, but instead of Theon throwing her onto a featherbed and ravishing her. It had come to her in dreams before, of his hands skimming along her legs before spreading them with burning eyes. He would take his pleasure from her, and make love to her until she saw the face of the Gods. 

Sansa longed to feel him near her, on her, _inside_ her. It was hard not to think about with him whispering into her ear and his hands roving along her stomach and hips just enough to tease her but not so much that it was blatantly inappropriate. He was frustrating in that regard; was he simply toying with her to pass time or did he feel it too?

She wanted him in a way she had never wanted anyone before.

Gods, what sort of wanton creature had she become that an innocent whisper in her ear could reduce her to such extreme desire? 

Mayhaps she had imagined it, but she felt his nose nuzzle against her ear for a moment before he withdrew, surveying the judgmental eyes against them once more. He was so close to her that it was torturous.

"Who goes there?" A stern-looking man with a long white beard demanded, stepping directly in front of their horse as if to stop Theon from nearing the castle. Theon tugged at the reins, the horse steering off to the side so that he could address the Lord before them.

"Theon Greyjoy. I've come with Sansa Stark. Might we pass so our king can see his sister?" His voice was snippy, but the older man didn't have a retort prepared for him, instead staring at her slack-jawed as if to gauge if she was an imposter or not. He cleared the road and bowed at- no, not Theon. He was bowing for  _her_.

Sansa nodded at him shakily in acknowledgment, unable to muster words as Maegor carried them forward to the castle.

The man called out to his squire and addressed him gruffly, to which the young boy ran ahead of them in a frenzy. When the boy reached the men manning the gate and disappeared out of their sight, Sansa held her breath. She was really going to see them again, her mother and Robb.

Her red hair was shining, only held in place with two braids along the top of her head. It was a Northern look and she was glad of it. Theon had helped her craft the look with only minimal complaining that morning. Her clothes were still plain and dirty with use, but she knew her mother would still recognize her all the same.

The castle gates opened for them, the sounds of creaking metal almost deafening her. She heard Theon draw a sharp breath behind her before he stepped down from the horse, now just seeming to realize where they were. Sansa took the hands that Theon offered her, a nervous smile exchanged between the two of them as her feet hit the ground. She felt light on her toes, not having walked in hours. Theon's eyes searched hers for the answer to a question she didn't know had been asked.

A cry sounded from beyond the bridge, causing her head to whip to the side instinctively. A sob left Sansa's lips before she could think to stop it, her hand coming up to cover at her face. She was overwhelmed at the sight of her mother sprinting towards her with her face contorted in a strange blend of joy and grief. She could only stand in place as Catelyn Stark ran towards her, her skirts dancing in the wind, and suddenly she was enveloped in the warmest hug she had felt in years. 

Soft hands touched Sansa's cheek as Catelyn looked upon her, disbelieving at the sight of her eldest daughter, safe and sound and in her home. Her palm cupped Sansa's jaw while the other grasped at a lock of her long hair. "My daughter," Catelyn wept her daughter's name as if it were a prayer. "Sansa, Sansa,  _Sansa_."

"Mother," Sansa's body trembled as she sobbed openly for everyone to see. The older woman pulled her face towards her shoulder, to which Sansa clung on tight. 

"You've grown so much, my love." Catelyn whispered into Sansa's hair, her eyes squeezing shut while tears trickled down her face. "My Sansa," she whispered, completely oblivious to the small crowd gathered around them.

Edmure Tully stood at the gates with his uncle, seemingly shocked to see the niece he had scarcely met but once or twice embracing with her mother.

And then Robb was running out of the castle, out of breath and eyes wild.

As soon as he caught a glimpse of his sister, he almost tripped over his own feet to run to her. Catelyn reluctantly let her daughter go and watched as Robb pulled Sansa into his arms, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. The two hugged, though Sansa embraced her brother with less enthusiasm than she had with her mother. Even so, Sansa softened considerably when he breathed her in, his blue eyes wet with unshed tears. He murmured something to her, though no one but Sansa could hear it. She nodded at him and suddenly the pair were smiling, their eyes rimmed with red and their arms wound tightly around each other.

Then Lady Stark turned to address Theon, her hand darting out to grab at his arm.

"Where's Arya?" She asked, her voice sounding shrill and hysterical to his ears. He winced as she continued, her grip tightening around his wrist.

"Theon, where is my daughter?" The answer was clear to anyone with eyes, considering that they had arrived on horseback. Catelyn continued desperately as if she hoped the younger Stark sister would appear from behind him. "Is Arya with you?"

He shook his head, his mouth suddenly too dry to form words. Something sparked in her eyes -he couldn't tell if it was rage, sadness, or a mix of the two- but Sansa placed her hand atop her mother's to quiet her. It worked like a charm, considering Catelyn let Theon go abruptly and turned to her daughter expectantly. Her chest was still heaving and her eyes frenzied when she laced her and Sansa's hands together, nodding for her daughter to speak.

"Arya wasn't with me, Mother." Her voice was hoarse from all the crying and Robb lingered close behind her, hanging onto every word she spoke. "She disappeared after Father was imprisoned. No one's been able to find her, not even the Lannisters." 

Catelyn took a step back as if she had been on the receiving end of a physical blow. She looked as if she was about to say something when the Blackfish came up behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Cat. Let's go inside." She allowed him to lead her back into the castle, only moving when Sansa reached for her hand and started walking back with her. The girl exchanged a grim look with her grand-uncle and turned to glance at Theon worriedly.

He didn't have time to think on what it meant before he was being tugged into a hug of his own.

"Thank you, Theon.  _Thank you_ ," Robb's cheek was suddenly pressed into his shoulder and Theon returned the hug fiercely as wetness pooled at his shoulder. Robb was crying. Theon hadn't seen him cry in a while, not since the day they received word that Lord Stark had been executed. "I thought... I thought-"

"That I'd abandoned you?" Theon joked, moisture clouding his own eyes at the reception. He'd been afraid Robb would be angry with him. 

"That was the gist of it," Robb grinned in kind through his tears, clapping a hand onto his best friend's shoulder. "We have much to talk about."


	2. i stand out here alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I definitely took some risks during this chapter, but it felt like it was where the story needed to go. Please be gentle!

"You're a madman," Robb breathed out, a disbelieving laugh emitting from his throat. "An absolute madman. You could have died, Theon."

It seemed like a lifetime ago, to think about when they were just arrogant children playing at being men with their blunt training swords and heads in the clouds. They used to fantasize about riding off into battle together, fighting a wide range of foes from Dothraki horse lords to Essosi sellswords.

As long as they were together, they would be unstoppable. They had formed a fast friendship at Winterfell, only a year apart in age with an equal penchant for mischief; Robb was Theon's one constant in this world when everyone else inevitably let him down. 

 _Brothers, now and always_ , Theon remembered them chanting together from the time that he was two and ten. Then he thought of Rodrik and Maron, dead because of a rebellion that his father started, and wondered if he had betrayed their memory by loving the Starks as much he did. 

Anyone else would expect him to want vengeance on behalf of the brothers he barely knew; their memory conjured up nothing for him but indifference. They were drunkards, he told himself, and cruel drunkards at that. He remembered clutching at his bloody cheek and dislodged arm as his father snapped at him to stop sniveling and act like a man.  _You're a Greyjoy_ , Balon had roared at him as if the words meant anything at all to a seven-year-old boy. Mother cleaned him up that night, dabbing a cloth to his swollen eye as Asha sat silently at his side, her eyes curious yet judgmental. She'd laughed aloud when she saw what their brothers had done to him, japing about how little iron he must have in his veins to be so easily bent.

Only his mother ever truly loved him, Theon thought bitterly, and she was rotting away on an island now, driven mad from grief.

No, he wasn't betraying them. How could he, when the Starks offered him a kinship that his own family withheld from him? He longed for a home in the deep hours of the night but the home he dreamed of was covered in snow, not saltwater. 

"Then I'd have died for a worthy cause," Theon responded evenly, rubbing his hands near the fire he was crouched before. He didn't regret going after Sansa, especially not after watching her reunite with her mother. For all that he told himself he saved the girl for glory, the love he bore for her family was undeniable.

After all that he had gone through to get Sansa back home, he couldn't lie to himself and say that she meant nothing to him. She was a clever girl, hardened by a war she shouldn't have had to see in the first place. Theon had to respect her resilience and strength after all the horrors she'd endured. He remembered the days when he dreamed that Lord Stark would marry him to Sansa, back when the world seemed a place where he could be both a Stark and a Greyjoy. He didn't understand how alliances worked back then, not wanting to liken himself to a hostage at that age. All he thought was that he would be a lord and she would be a lady someday- what more was there to an arranged marriage?

Back then, it wasn't about Sansa specifically -she was a  _child_ , for gods' sake and even Theon wasn't that depraved- but about what marriage to her would represent.

Now though... he had been all too aware of her presence in the recent weeks, feeling like a bloody monster for looking upon her with anything other than brotherly affection. She left Winterfell a child and returned to Riverrun as a woman. It was difficult to ride all those days with her curled up against his chest, all the while wondering what it would be like if she was his. 

And gods, sharing a bed with her had never been so excruciating as it had been at the fucking Kneeling Man.

She wanted his company and wanted his touch, and that knowledge was enough to drive him half mad. So easily he could have kissed her, perhaps even bedded her if she was so inclined to let him into her heart and between her legs, but he restrained himself.

Sansa Stark was not meant for him.

Theon knew full well that Robb would thump him into another dimension if he could see into his thoughts and know exactly how he was fantasizing about her. Sansa was practically the Maiden reborn, which made him feel even more like a brute for thinking about it.

He tried to divert his attentions, blaming his treasonous feelings on the fact that he hadn't spent time with a girl in months.

What he needed was a good fuck, Theon rationalized, and he would forget all about the matter. There was a brothel outside of the city walls, wasn't there...?

He'd fuck a blonde tonight, Theon told himself with more force than necessary. Anyone who didn't have red hair would suddenly be the most beautiful woman in all of bloody Westeros tonight.

Robb exhaled shakily, staring off into the fire ponderously. "You saved her life. While I was sitting here, useless as a sack of shit-"

"You had a kingdom to run and a war to win," he interrupted passionately. Robb glanced over at him gratefully, though he looked unconvinced. It wasn't like Robb could have risked walking into the slums of King's Landing; he'd have been tossed into chains and had his head lopped off without a second thought. "I saw a chance and I took it. You weren't in the position to do it yourself, not like I was." 

"If you'd told me, I would have stopped you." Robb admitted guiltily, likely thinking about Sansa's initially cold reception to him on the bridge. She would forgive him sooner or later, especially now that they fought on the same side.

"I know," Theon grinned. "That's why I didn't tell you."

At that both men chuckled into their respective glasses, just glad to be in each other's company. 

"Mother's going to want us to start looking for Arya," Robb sighed once the laughter ceased. There were lines in his forehead again, his face hardening as he remembered all of his responsibilities once more. Gods, when had Robb started looking so old? "Where do you wager she's gone?"

Theon shrugged, truly unsure. The she-wolf was a brat from the time she could walk. She used to follow Jon Snow around like a lost pup, the pair of them usually intolerable enough that he'd avoid them altogether. He pretended not to notice when she'd nick his bow to practice shooting early in the mornings. Sometimes he would even watch her from the battlements, surprised at her quick progress. Her tantrums were the stuff of nightmares, Theon thought, recalling every time she had stomped and screamed when her mother would force her to practice curtseying or singing in front of the family.

Snow, however, had always been a killjoy. Theon once dragged the bastard to the winter town in a rare attempt to end the enmity between them, and the trip had been a complete disaster. Jon just sat there while Ros undressed for him, looking like he was about to cry at the mere sight of a naked woman. He put an end to it soon enough, muttering something under his breath before he fled back to the castle like a frightened little girl.

"Here, probably. Where else would she go?" Theon asked, truly baffled about how the girl would have managed nearly three years on her own anywhere in Westeros, let alone the capital city. Someone had to be taking care of her if she was alive, that much was certain. "King's Landing was too bloody expensive for me, and I was a grown man. If the Lannisters haven't found her by now, she's not in their city."

Robb cracked another bemused smile at him and Theon fought not to let his insecurities ruin their moment. Sometimes even Theon forgot that he was the elder of the two, with the way his friend carried himself.

He'd always been envious of Robb- his station, his family, his prospects... it seemed as if the entire world was at the palm of his hands whereas Theon's was dangling on a fragile string. 

"You wouldn't suppose you'd still like to go to Pyke, would you?" Robb didn't look over when he addressed him, staring intensely into the heat of the flames instead. Theon paused in the act of lifting his pint glass to his lips. After all the effort he'd took getting here, he was just willing to send him away again? Robb elaborated before Theon's thoughts could run away from him. "We're going to need ships if we're going to take King's Landing. Your father's not too happy with us right now."

"You'd trust me with that after months of thinking I turned turncloak?" Theon asked, bewildered at the thought of leaving Robb's side again. When he didn't respond, Theon weakly thought of a compromise that wouldn't yield any real results. "I could send him a letter." 

"I already did," Robb admitted sheepishly, to which Theon eyed him with curiosity.

"And?" He asked with great impatience, pleading with Robb silently to just get on with it.

"He called me a mainlander and a fool. Said you hadn't been to Pyke in years and that I should sod off. Named himself King of the Iron Islands and promised to rape and reave my country," Robb replied dryly. Theon cursed his father, the old bastard, for being so set in his ways. Was the stubborn man's mind truly so gone that he would try to take up arms and start a war with the North, especially after how it went the last time he attempted a rebellion?

If Lord Stark was here, he would be honor-bound to kill Theon, he realized with creeping horror.

As if he could sense what Theon was thinking, Robb's brows drew together, reaching to place a hand on Theon's shoulder once more, forcing the two men to look at each other plainly. He was frightened at what was about to be said. Was sending him to Pyke just a ruse so that Robb could rid himself of Theon forever? 

"I'm your friend before I've ever been your king, Theon. When you freed my sister from that blasted place..." Robb shook his head, unable to come up with the right words to say. "You haven't been our ward in a long time, not since Father died. If you want to return to the islands, you're free to do so. You've earned that privilege," Robb continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I would have you stay by my side. As a guest and a lord in your own right. If that's what you want."

Robb was sitting before him with genuine brotherly affection in his eyes, and Theon had to blink back surprised tears. A lump formed in his throat and he comprehended the weight of what Robb was offering him. As much as he had dreamed of this throughout his travels, he never thought that it would be a possibility for him. Freedom. His mind was made up before he could stop himself. "I want to stay here, Robb, by your side. You're the family I choose."

Robb struggled for a few moments, eventually expressing himself with a cautious statement. He almost seemed worried that Theon would change his mind once he revealed his plans for Lord Balon. "Theon, your father's been raiding our villages. If he doesn't lay down his arms soon..."

The warning was understood.

"He dies," Theon answered simply, not really feeling anything at all at the concept. What kind of a father was he, if he didn't worry after his youngest child's health? Balon let Theon go without much of a fight, practically giving him away like some unwanted mutt.

Lord Eddard wouldn't have stopped at anything to get his children back, even the baseborn one. Lord Eddard would have fought for him, which was more than the man who created Theon had ever done. "I know."

"And you're alright with that?" Robb asked incredulously, unable to fathom how Theon had gone from defending his father's position all those moons ago to accepting his imminent death without much protest. Was he? Theon wasn't sure, not with how much whiplash he had endured over this day.

"I don't have to be." Theon shrugged. The Iron Islands would be his if his father fell, and his gut churned at the treacherous thought. Mayhaps it would be better that way- Theon could actually have something to offer to Robb if his father died. With the strength of the Iron Fleet, they would surely crush the Lannisters into pulp. He locked eyes with his king to see that they were thinking in a similar vein. Of course they were. They were family whether they shared blood or not.

Robb eventually lifted his arm up, offering it to Theon with a raise of his brows. They sealed their pact when Theon's arm locked with his in the old way, their wordless agreement binding in the eyes of the gods above them. He had made his choice now. He only hoped he didn't choose wrong.

* * *

"You can't," Sansa exclaimed in dismay, her eyes narrowed into slits as she faced her brother down with the intensity of a hundred trained soldiers. 

She had just walked in on a sight that would be burned into her brain for years to come; Robb in the throes of passion with a nurse that she had seen him flirting with on the battlefields. Talisa, her name was. Robb had introduced them so enthusiastically, but Sansa hadn't even realized why until now.

Talisa gathered her clothes frantically despite Robb's bizarre request that she stay, to which Sansa scoffed aloud in disbelief. Had he learned nothing from Mother's pain over the years about their father's past infidelity? Was he so willing to disregard his future wife's feelings that he would bed another woman openly, for all of his soldiers to see and gossip about? Sansa glared at the half-naked girl as she fled the room, unable to believe that Robb had done this.

What would his bride think when she heard about her husband's exotic lover and their band of bastard children, five years from now?

All of Sansa's worries were magnified when Robb announced his intention to wed Talisa and make her a Stark by law, uncaring about the ramifications of such a decision. She gaped at him in disbelief as he rolled his eyes at her as if  _she_  was the ridiculous one.

He truly might be the stupidest boy she had met in her entire life.

"I can and I will," Robb declared, sounding more like a child than he ever had before. "I want to marry a woman I love, not one that I'm bound to by a bridge."

"Have you no regard for her honor?" Sansa's outrage spiked by the second. Would he truly shame House Frey so by sleeping with a girl while his wife's brothers shared his meat and mead? What had gotten into him? 

His favorite squire was one of the Frey boys- he could have easily been the one who'd stumbled upon this sight, and there would be no way to recover from that.

Robb had the nerve to look confused. "Her honor is why I'm doing this!"

She gaped at him in disbelief. 

"Not Talisa Maegyr, you idiot," Sansa's hands were on her hips, looking eerily like their mother with her pursed lips and furious eyes. She had never turned this look on him before, usually reserving it for her spats with Arya. "The Frey girl you're supposed to marry after the war!"

He fell silent for a moment, pouting like a petulant child who had gotten his dessert taken away from him at supper.

"I don't want to marry her," Robb whined helplessly, seeming to forget the entire concept of being a king with allies and responsibilities. Sansa was fuming now, her hands clasped together so that she wouldn't throttle her brother into another plane of existence. 

"She's been waiting for you for years," Sansa attempted to appeal to his romantic sensibilities. She stepped closer to him to exaggerate her point. "And you're about to forsake her and her father -whose army you  _need_  to win this war and avenge Father-  for a passing fancy? You would really break her heart and risk losing one of your largest armies, for a girl you met a few weeks ago? Father would be disappointed in the man you've become."

He looked like he'd been slapped, opening his mouth and closing it like a wounded animal.

"I don't know even know her name, Sansa." Robb admitted, sounding sadder than she had ever heard him. He looked heartbroken at her accusation, sitting on his furs with his head in his hands. She couldn't find it in herself to feel bad about how harsh she wasn’t being. "How am I supposed to love a girl I don't even know when everything I've ever wanted stands in this very camp? She's perfect, Sansa. If you gave her a chance, I know that you would see that too."

Robb had always been so soft-hearted when it came to girls, Sansa thought. When they were children, he always jumped to play the knight to her imperiled princess.

Sitting beside him, Sansa smoothed out her dress and decided to address him as her brother, not her king.

"You have to do your duty, Robb," her honeyed tone did little to quell the cruelty of what she was suggesting. "This is about more than just you or her. This is about a promise you made to your bannermen. You promised to make that girl your queen, Robb. If you don't, we could lose everything that we've been fighting for."

Robb looked at her carefully as if he was trying to figure something out. He barked a bitter laugh and looked away, his eyes suspiciously moist while he stared resolutely at the walls behind her. "You're starting to sound like Mother."

"Maybe you should start listening to her more so I won't have to," Sansa suggested, her eyebrows raised and a small smile playing at her lips as she waited to see whether Robb would heed her advice or not. He didn't smile back at her, his eyes devoid of any kind of emotion as he turned his gaze back onto his sister.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Robb's voice was strained, most of his anger directed at his sister for being the one to speak sense to him. "I love her, Sansa."

"I'm sure you do," Sansa responded sympathetically, her hand rubbing circles on his shoulder blades. He was cracking underneath the pressure. "But you have to do what's right. What's honorable. It's what Father would want you to do, Robb, and we both know it."

Robb looked at her miserably, the gears turning in his head as he comprehended her words in full. He knew she was right, she could tell by the way that he frowned at her. More than ever, she could see the boy beneath a crown that he never asked for. 

* * *

In the end, it was Sansa who left Riverrun.

Mother had decided that it was well passed time to return to Winterfell, especially now that Bran was immersed in his lessons and Rickon -by all of Master Luwin's accounts - missed his mother dearly.

She was reluctant to leave her eldest son without her counsel while the war waged on, but the death of Hoster Tully seemed to provide an incentive for her to return home and grieve.

 Now that Father's bones had been delivered to the family, Mother could finally put him to rest in the crypts.

Sansa offered to remedy Robb's situation by visiting the Twins herself, joined by a host of men led by Edwyn Frey and Edmure Tully. Ser Rodrik was to meet her lady mother at the Twins and escort her back up to Winterfell to ensure that she got there safely, while Sansa was to stay for however long she needed.

Catelyn had communicated to Walder Frey that the king was to select a wife for Sansa's retinue to bring back to Riverrun, knowing that he would be pleased to hear that his daughter would be wed sooner than expected.

If Robb died and she was with child, she'd birth an heir to the North; if Robb died and the two hadn't even been married, she would have to find another husband. 

They couldn't do much better than Robb, and that was for certain.

Robb saw Sansa off with a strained smile and a stiff hug, still upset that she had effectively ended his love affair with the nurse from Volantis.

Talisa ended up being sent to another one of his camps closer to the Westerlands and Robb had been sullen about it for weeks.

Theon stood at her brother's side and she watched him with bated breath. Though she wanted to hug him as she had with her brother, she recognized that doing so would only draw attention to her sudden affections for him. She would die of embarrassment if Theon suspected that her feelings for him were romantic.

She approached him with caution and took his gloved hands with her own. He was her savior, after all, and Sansa wouldn't underplay his importance to her, no matter her mother's clear discomfort at how much she cared for him.

Theon saved her from a city of monsters, and she would never forget that.

 _Don't die_ , she wanted to plead with him. Her attachment to Theon was still a mystery to her but she supposed it was a common thing, for girls to fall in love with the heroes who rescued them from harm's way. Why else would there be so many songs about it?

"I hope to see you when I return," Sansa said instead, a small smile curving at her lips as she recalled his hot breath at her neck, and hands gently grasping at her waist while they road along the Trident together.

Then it had been just the two of them, without a care or worry in the world other than survival. She saw something flash in his eyes when she prolonged their goodbye for longer than absolutely necessary. She liked to imagine it was longing, though the cynic in her wagered that he was just worried about her.

She could practically hear her mother grinding her teeth at the interaction, but Robb took no notice of Sansa's moon eyes for his best friend. He was busy thinking about other matters and had never been the most perceptive man in the world.

What was a harmless infatuation compared to the deaths of thousands of men?

"You as well, Lady Sansa." Theon nodded at her curtly when everyone looked to him for his response. "Have a safe journey."

* * *

It had been three moons since she left Riverrun.

The Twins accommodated her nicely, though there was an atmosphere about the place that made her deeply uneasy. Walder Frey kept making comments about how bonny she had gotten since she was a babe -as if he had ever seen her at all, which she was mostly sure he hadn't- and how supple her figure had gotten.

The way he leered at her at supper made her exceptionally uncomfortable.

Lord Edmure complained about the castle without end, desperate to leave and get back into the thick of battle. Her uncle was the only tolerable company she kept at the Twins, other than a select few of Walder Frey's daughters and granddaughters.

She tried not to spend much time in the company of his sons out of fear that he suggest that they bind their families again. 

Her mother wrote to her frequently, often describing Rickon and Bran's progress in their lessons as well as the growing wildness of their wolves.

Sansa was puzzled when Mother sent word that Beth Cassel wished her well and hoped to see her again soon- had Jeyne never made it back to Winterfell?

She was probably dead, Sansa thought grimly. Her last memory of her childhood friend was how frightened she'd been when they were trapped in Sansa's rooms together at King's Landing. They were only thirteen then. 

Yes, she was probably dead.

Robb's letters were clipped as if he scribbled them in between battles. I'm not dead, the words seemed to say though he didn't write it outright. Theon wrote to her too from time to time, just writing about little feats he had achieved in battle and stories that he'd heard on the road. Robb sent word to her a fortnight ago that he planned on retaking Harrenhal from the Lannisters once and for all so that they could start turning their energies away from the Riverlands and onto the West.

The stream of letters made her miss having a family all the more and so one night, she made a decision that she had been thinking on for weeks. She drafted close to a dozen letters before she settled on one with the right tone and meaning behind it. 

 _My dearest brother_ , the letter began, though she rewrote it time and time again. She settled on a flowery approach that she felt communicated how much she longed to reconnect with her half-brother.

The letter spanned over three pages of parchment.

When she had finally written enough to satisfy her, she signed her name with a flourish. It took her hours to muster the courage to send it, scared that Jon would toss the letter out without reading it.

It was never too late, she reminded herself. They had to stick together now and be a true wolf pack, like Father would have wanted from them.

Sansa decided on a girl for Robb weeks ago, surprised that she had been the obvious pick of the bunch. She had to wonder why her mother hadn't just selected her immediately when they first brokered the deal.

She was horrified when the old lecher introduced Shirei to her, wagering that she couldn't be much older than Bran.

Tyta was too old to bear children, that much was clear from one glance. Arwyn was comely enough, but Sansa heard enough rumors about her parentage that she couldn't risk picking the wrong girl.

Roslin Frey was the only option when she took looks and lineage into consideration.

Robb had sent her a lukewarm confirmation two weeks ago, clearly still upset at the prospect of tying himself down in marriage before the war was at an end.

Roslin had gone white as a sheet when Sansa confided the news to her in secret.  _Robb wants you for his Queen_ , Sansa fibbed with the best of intentions.

If Roslin thought Robb loved her already, perhaps she would be more inclined to seek him out before the wedding day.

She was sweet and pretty enough with her doe-eyes and angular face, and her soft voice, and gentle touch. _Yes_ , Sansa thought resolutely,  _Robb will love her._

* * *

Theon heard tales of Gregor Clegane when he was a boy but hadn't ever seen the man's work in action.

The sight was gruesome and grizzly beyond his wildest imaginations, a slew of bodies scattered over the courtyard of Harrenhal.

He released the pommel of his sword with a sharp breath, unable to look upon the dead bodies for more than a few seconds before nausea overtook him. Gods, they were practically torn to shreds. What kind of brute was The Mountain, that he was even physically capable of doing such a thing? It was raining, though it did little to mask the smell of rotting flesh.

Karstark remained alert behind him and commanded his men to search the castle for survivors. Robb dropped his helm to the ground with a grunt. They were too late. He looked miserable as he made a point to stare at nearly every face they passed in the dirt. 

"We did all we could," Theon assured Robb, reaching out to him to give him some sort of comfort. Robb shook Theon's hand off of him and gave him a withering glance that cut him deeper than he would have liked to admit. He dropped his hand, wondering if anyone else had seen the rejection.

"Did we?" Robb's voice was distant if not regretful. His upper lip curled with disgust as he looked on at all of the smallfolk he had failed. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Theon supposed and tried not to think too much on it. He salvaged his pride as much as he could by repeating Karstark's orders to the Umbers trailing behind him. For all his bluster, he was hurt. Theon busied himself by surveying the area for survivors, trying not to let resentment consume him.

Later that night, he fucked a girl who had been serving soldiers wine in the encampments. She was a pretty thing, with wild dark hair and wide green eyes that she batted at him with purpose.

It had been so long since he'd had a woman that he'd almost forgot what it was like. It was a relief to indulge himself in a way he hadn’t gotten to since Winterfell. 

They tumbled onto his straw bed, clothes discarded onto the ground with little care.

The coupling felt good at first, but the magic faded as soon as a familiar feeling of emptiness overtook him.

Her eyes were suddenly  _too_  green and her hair  _too_  dark for his particular appetites.

Her smile wasn't right -too sultry and thin- and her body was too... it just wasn't right. He didn't want her.

He frowned as he softened within the girl -was her name Mariah? Alayya? He couldn't recall- and withdrew from her, his hand darting out to rest on her thigh so as to stop her movements.

Theon squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to forget about Robb and Sansa and his father and Lord Eddard and propriety and expectations and war... it was too overwhelming.

He couldn't bear it, to think about so much while thinking about nothing at all. Eventually, he settled on what he thought about most nights despite the guilt that gnawed at him for it. Gods, why was he so stuck on Sansa Stark?

Theon didn’t need to open his eyes to know that his new bedmate was staring at him expectantly, likely confused about why they had stopped.

Exhaling deeply, Theon resolved to see this through. He would never have the girl he wanted and it would do him no good to pine after her now.

”Suck my cock instead,” he ordered the girl though he wouldn’t blame her if she chose to leave his tent in light of his strange behavior.

Instead, she complied with a giggle, sidling up to him before licking a stripe up his length, her hands squeezing around the base of it lightly. She took him into her mouth expertly after attempting to distract him with her teasing, moaning around his cock in an act that once would have delighted him.

It was still pleasurable but not as much as it used to be; only when he envisioned her with bluer eyes and auburn hair did he truly begin to feel satisfied with the coupling.

He threaded his hand through the woman’s hair as she bobbed her head on his cock obediently, eyes still screwed shut as he allowed himself to retreat into his fantasies about a woman he could never have.

This wasn’t working. 

“Stop,” Theon heard himself say softly, averting his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the disappointed look in the girl’s eyes. She disconnected from his length with a popping sound and leaned back, scrambling for her clothes as he stared resolutely at the wall.

She was gone before five minutes had passed, likely to try her hand at taking her pleasure with some other soldier. He felt a blend of self-hatred, frustration, pity, and confusion brewing inside of him at his dismissal of the girl. He hadn’t ever had this problem with a girl before, even the ones he wasn’t as attracted to as he was to the serving girl.

What was wrong with him?

Taking himself into his hand, he thought about Sansa freely, pleasuring himself to thoughts of her smile like the melt he had somehow become.

* * *

At the end of it, Walder Frey refused to attend the nuptials for himself.  _Black Walder will give her away_ , he drawled with a strange smirk.

She wondered if he was trying to humiliate Robb by sending his heir in his stead, but she found that she didn't care all that much.

It hardly mattered now.

Sansa hoped to never see that horrid old man again in her life or feel his beady eyes following her across the room.

Roslin was soft-spoken and gentle. Her stitching wasn't perfect nor was her singing, but she would make a good mother to Robb's children.

Mother had sent her countless letters expressing her disappointment that Robb and Roslin would wed without much time for preparation, but Sansa assured her that it was what needed to happen to ensure that their alliance lasted.

Mother of all people knew how fickle Lord Frey was, and Sansa stressed that point in her last letter to her.

A victorious smile danced on her lips when she received news that Lady Catelyn would be traveling back to Riverrun in time for the wedding.

* * *

 “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger." 

Two voices spoke in tandem, rainbow-patterned lights dancing off of Robb's crown as he looked upon his bride. Roslin held his gaze, sounding even more lovelorn than Sansa could have hoped. They were gathered in the Sept that her parents had been wed in just over twenty years earlier, only days after Robb returned from Harrenhal with his army in tow. They didn't have any time to spare, Sansa rationalized to her uncle who protested at the hastiness of the wedding, not when there was a war happening outside of their gates.

Now there was a sliver of fabric wrapped around their joined hands, Roslin's gold-embroidered dress hiding beneath the white and grey wedding cloak that Sansa had sewn while they were at the Twins. Her hair was wrapped up in a Northern look, one that Catelyn suggested for her in hopes that it would warm the Northerners to their new queen. Since they weren't being wedded in the godswood, she knew that there would be some grumbles among the more religious bannermen.

Roslin Frey looked like a dream, Sansa had to admit, standing there with the largest of smiles on her face. Even Robb looked dazed at the sight, stumbling over his words as they pledged themselves to one another. Sansa thanked the gods that he liked her, unable to fathom what would have happened had he married Talisa all those months ago. Sansa squeezed her mother's hand as her brother gazed at his wife, thanking every god in the sky that they had gotten here.

"I am hers and she is mine," came Robb's voice, so much louder than his little wife. "From this day until the end of my days."

* * *

The festivities had left her breathless. She forgot how much she loved this sort of celebration, especially when it wasn't her neck on the figurative chopping block.

For so long, she had dreaded her wedding to Joffrey- her nightmares about it were unending when they were still supposed to be wed- but now she could simply dance and drink and sing without anything on her mind but  _joy_. Robb was married - her older brother,  _married_!- in the sight of gods and men, and everything was beautiful. The food was delicious and the musicians played a variety of Northern and Riverlands tunes, most of which Sansa already knew by heart.

Sansa left the Great Hall the moment that the boisterous men at the feast called for a bedding ceremony, not feeling inclined to want to see much of the ceremony. She could scarcely believe it. Roslin Stark, Queen in the North. It was odd to think that she had a queen now, especially one who was so different from Cersei Lannister in just about every way that one could imagine. She felt relief, to not have to think about silly things like plots and politics and ulterior motives. She never appreciated that about the North when she was growing up- how simple it was. If someone wanted something, they simply just said so instead of hinting at it.

A spirited rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair sounded from within the keep's walls, Sansa swaying lightly to the rhythm of the song. Her head buzzed with the lasting effect of red wine, happy to have indulged in the drink for one of the only times. She didn't care for it much, finding that she appreciated sweeter flavors much more than any kind of ale or wine. Today was a special occasion though, and she laughed into the open night like a woman crazed.

Mother had gone to bed as soon as the celebration got too bawdy for her tastes, so Sansa had been left alone to her own thoughts. She'd decided to enjoy the fresh air of the gardens. It made her feel like she was at home, to just walk about the godswood with the tart taste of lemon cakes still faint on her lips, her elaborate skirts dragging across the muddy ground. She didn't even care that she was ruining it, just enthralled to be in such a magical environment.

She worked on this dress for weeks, trying to replicate the effect of the Stark banners with the soft cream and pale green of the fabric. It made her feel powerful to cover the ends of it in mud, especially now that she wouldn't have another excuse to wear it.

"Enjoying yourself?" A familiar voice sounded from the corner of the godswood. She turned to the intruder, her demeanor perking up as soon as she saw him.

Theon was leaning against a redwood tree, his eyes a little unfocused from all of the wine he had consumed throughout the night. He seemed surprised to see her so uncontrolled, his eyes dropping to give her a once over before bowing dramatically. 

She returned his smile in full and curtseyed a little worse than she usually did, beaming at him nonetheless. She didn't presume to hug him, not after so many moons apart. Sansa stopped a couple of feet away from him.

"I am," Sansa breathed out contentedly, her loose hair shaking with the wind. "We have a new queen."

He grinned wickedly and ruined her sweet sentiment within mere seconds. "Probably some princes and princesses on the way too, if the noises coming from Robb's chambers-"

"Theon!" Sansa cackled despite herself, her hand cracking forward to slap at his shoulder. Perhaps all of the wine  _had_  gone to her head if Theon's perverse jokes actually amused her, she thought miserably. The gods had cursed her by making her fancy such a crude man. "That's foul."

"My apologies, Princess." Theon acknowledged though he didn't sound sorry in the slightest bit. "I'll mind my tongue."

She hadn't spoken to Theon alone, not since they had both returned to Riverrun. In truth though, it had been longer than that- possibly back to when he had first taken her to the castle gates, the pair of them tattered and worse for wear. Now they were both dressed in silks and drunk with the highest of spirits. 

The intricacy of his jerkin's design was particularly interesting to Sansa tonight, with a kraken design plastered on his chest. The  tentacles sprawled out in all directions, the illusion of it all catching her eye within seconds. It was captivating, one she was a little envious that she hadn't thought of first. Maybe she would make him a pair of riding gloves someday with a similar design.

She felt Theon watching her in anticipation of what she would do, but couldn't muster up the courage to look him in his eyes without giving her game away. He'd mock her for  _years_  if he knew she liked him in that way.

Sansa ran a finger along the golden embroidery of the beast before she could stop herself. She realized her error when she felt him still beneath her touch, her mouth going dry and cheeks heating up at the realization that she had done something so forward to her brother's best friend. What was she thinking? Sansa instantly withdrew her hand as if it had been burned, trying to think of something -anything- she could say to explain her bizarre behavior.

She opened her mouth to explain, or to apologize, or to do something other than just stand there. Her throat was already closed up, tears forming in her eyes as she anticipated his rejection. After all of her overthinking, had she really just spoiled their conversation in a moment of impulsiveness? 

"You didn't dance with me today," Sansa settled on saying, reaching her hand back out to daringly smooth out the collar of his wedding attire. She looked up at him, taken aback by how intensely he was staring at her.

This was new. 

There was something desperate in his eyes, a craving for... something. He was looking at her as if she could make all of his dreams come true with a single word. 

She felt something akin to hope light up within her for the first time since Father announced her engagement to Joffrey for the whole North to hear. This was better though- it was  _Theon_ and he'd never hurt her, not ever.

His hand shot up to catch hers, holding it with a gentleness that she hadn't thought him capable. His gaze ricocheted between her eyes and lips. "Have I offended my lady?" He asked in that infuriatingly smug voice of his, knowing exactly what effect he had on her.

Gods, she had never felt her heart flutter this much in her life. She didn't get a chance to respond, not when he was looking at her with such a softness in his eyes and holding her hand like a prince from the songs.

He set her aflame with just his eyes, her skin burning under his very touch. With just a moment of tense breathlessness passing between them, he lifted her hand to graze his lips along her knuckles in a way that was somehow both princely and raunchy.

The action was drawn out for longer than would have been acceptable if they had any witnesses, the contact of his mouth on her skin sending shockwaves through her body. It felt so _intimate_ and Sansa felt her lips part at the sensation of it. When his eyes flicked up to gauge her reaction, she felt faint in the head.

She wanted him, she wanted him, she wanted _him_.

When Theon straightened, standing impossibly close to her, his thumb brushed along her wrist in a way that shouldn't have been so sensual but managed to knock the wind out of her all the same. Her eyes flitted down to his lips, wondering for the first time since the Inn of the Kneeling Man what it would be like to kiss him. 

An insistent set of lips were suddenly pressing against her own, catching her entirely by surprise despite her line of thought.

Sansa's eyes fluttered shut as a hard pair of arms came around her, tugging with desperate hands at her waist to pull her flush against him. She stumbled into Theon, her lips finally beginning to move in tandem with his. Her balled hands settled at his shoulders, unsure of where else they could go.

She was kissing Theon Greyjoy, and the feeling of their mutual affection almost swept the breath out of her entirely. Sansa smiled against his lips, feeling him grin into the kiss with fervor. One hand hesitantly slid up to play with the curls at the nape of his neck, and her knees nearly buckled when his tongue probed at her mouth.

This was so new to her, so different than any way she had been kissed before, and she didn't want it to ever end. She just barely registered his hands carding through her hair, only wanting to feel more and more and  _more_.

Was this what she had been missing out on when she took all of Septa's lessons about propriety and modesty to heart?

Sansa pushed impossibly closer to Theon, joy bursting within her as they basked in each other's attention, entirely unwilling to come up for air. Her heart swelled with fulfillment as they held one another and she tried to remember a moment that she felt happier.

This was special. Theon was special as well, no matter what anyone said about him. So what if he was ironborn? He had more honor and integrity than anyone she knew. He came for her when no one else would- she wouldn't let that act be forgotten. He was good and kind, and he was  _hers._

* * *

Was he avoiding her? Sansa couldn't tell. He sat just a few seats away from her at the feast, but his eyes rarely strayed far from his plate or his drink. It reminded her of how he would conduct himself in Winterfell, hardly talking to anyone but Robb even during the best parts of the feast. For someone who laughed as much as Theon did, there never seemed to be much joy in the action. Her heart fluttered in remembrance of his smile the night of the wedding, genuine and drunk off of wine and affection.

She had fantasized quite a bit about kissing him in the godswood again, or between the arches of the garden terrace, or against the bookshelves of the library, like springtime lovers would. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought that she would want to entertain a tryst with Theon, but now she could think of little else.

Now, though... she couldn't help the melancholy that flared up within her at the sight of him so resolutely ignoring her.

At least he wasn't looking at the serving girls- if he did something like that so soon after their kiss, her heart would surely break.

Their encounter a few nights previous ended when the sun came up, Theon walking her to her chambers before she went to bed dreaming of sweet kisses in the godswood. When she'd awoken, he hadn't joined her family in breaking their fast. 

Sansa chalked it up to being mere coincidence until she noticed that Theon evaded her as if she had the pox. It had been days now without a word spoken between the pair of them. Was he just so inebriated that he hadn't thought through his actions until it was too late? Was he disappointed with her inexperience? Was he bored of her company already? Did he not remember kissing her?

They hadn't spoken at all, not since the first kiss. Sansa picked at her food, a nervous hole worming into the pit of her stomach at the notion that her feelings weren't returned. It had been an easy thought to come to terms with when she didn't think anything could happen between them, but now that it had...

She caught his eye a handful of times to which he smiled at her like he always did. It was like nothing had happened between them at all and Sansa's feelings of inadequacy soon morphed into anger as she sat there, glaring at that stupid boy as she carved at the dish in front of her. How dare he presume to toy with her feelings and then ignore her as if she were some trollop that he met in the winter town?

Her moodiness was a risky thing, pettiness threatening to overtake her.

Theon was deep in his cups, she noticed as he sloshed another drink to the side from where he was sitting alone. The sight reminded Sansa of Jon and how he would slink around the hall when King Robert visited. He wouldn't drink himself into a stupor, of course, but his sullenness would always be plain for everyone to see. Theon wasn't bothering to talk to anyone, his attentions focused primarily on the bottom of his chalice.

It infuriated her deeply- why wouldn't he just  _look_  at her?  She talked herself out of confronting him for everyone to see, instead diverting her energies to anyone who wasn't him. 

* * *

Now Sansa was dancing with Ser Willis Wode, being spun around to the tune of a familiar folk song from the Riverlands. He longed to dance with her just once but knew it would raise too many questions for him to even begin answering.

Maybe on another night, when Sansa wasn't glaring at him for all to see.

Robb had asked him about it bemusedly, and Theon covered his ass by shrugging that he'd spilled a red vintage on her gown at the wedding feast and she was still cross with him for ruining hours of her stitchwork. Robb scoffed into his drink, apparently appeased by the answer though it was far from the truth.

He could still picture it, the sight of Sansa twirling around the godswood like a summer maiden, her eyes sparkling with wonder and hope, and a content smile drawn at her lips. It was a sight he'd never be able to forget, her disheveled state making her all the more beautiful. He had given in to every one of his idiotic desires that night, unable to help himself from having her in any way that he could. It was toeing a dangerous line, to conduct any sort of affair with a girl in her position, but he couldn't help himself.

None of his fantasies lived up to actually having her in his arms, sighing into every kiss like he was some sort of romantic hero, come to whisk her away from the realities of this horrid world. He would try to be the man she deserved, though he knew he never could be. 

It was surreptitious, true, but he got a twisted sense of pleasure from the act of stealing Robb Stark's sister from underneath his nose.

All his life, he'd been jealous of Robb and now someone was finally choosing him first. Now, he had his chance to enact a silent rebellion on his lifelong friend, proving that he didn't have to follow him like a dog on a leash. He was Theon Greyjoy, future Lord of the Iron Islands, and he would take whatever girl he wanted no matter what anyone said.

And if he wanted the king's sister, he'd take her too. He closed his eyes and licked his lips, drawing on his memories of her gasping beneath his kiss. He wondered what other ways he'd be able to make her cry out for him, a few scenarios already springing to mind.

 _You know it's more than that_ , a traitorous voice reminded him, sounding far too much like the melancholic boy Ned Stark had brought into his home. He had been alone for his entire life, even when he was surrounded by other people. When he was around Sansa, he didn't feel so alone anymore. Was that such a bad thing?

Edmure Tully had a serving girl on his lap, the fool, completely shameless for all of the Riverlords to see. Theon rolled his eyes at the sight, his attention waning until Robb excused himself to bed his wife. Lady Catelyn had retreated to her chambers hours ago, uncaring of any sort of festivities when she could be writing to her sons at Winterfell.

When Theon locked eyes with the girl he'd been avoiding all night, he jerked his head quickly at the door leading into the gardens.

Sansa's face was pinched with anger, though she eventually conceded and stormed out through the archway he'd indicated for her. He followed after a few moments, checking his surroundings to ensure that no unwelcome guests would be walking in on their rendezvous. 

She was facing a rose bush, her velvet gown hugging at her curves. Theon wasted no time in bounding up behind Sansa and pulling her flush against him, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. "You're being too obvious."

Sansa arched towards his touch and he smirked at the small victory, his lips trailing down to press soft kisses at her neck. "And you're an idiot," Sansa retorted, her words dissipating into the wind as she turned in his arms and beamed at him like the past six hours hadn't happened at all. "The stupidest boy I've met in my life."

"Aye. I thought you already knew that." Theon grinned at her unhurt, to which she initiated a hesitant kiss. She relaxed into it once he leaned into her, his lips molding against hers instantly. She broke apart from him to rest her forehead against his- she was as tall as he was now, and would likely grow even taller.

He was amazed at the sight of her, all swollen lips and deep blue eyes. Seven hells, how was he supposed to resist a girl like this?

"Your mother would have me hanged if she knew about this," Theon murmured against her lips, his hands daring to graze along the side of her breast. She didn't move, though her breath hilted at the touch and a shiver rippled through her at the sensuality of it all. "Robb would have my head," He continued with a chuckle and kissed along her jaw. Sansa twirled one of his curls in her fingers, willing him to stop talking about her brother. "Or do you think he'd geld me first?"

"I wouldn't let them harm you," Sansa assured him, her lips brushing against his in the sweetest kiss he had ever received. "Not ever."

* * *

This meal was grueling. Sansa fought not to tap her feet with impatience at every pointless story Edmure told, locking eyes with her mother when her boredom became too obvious. She twisted her expression into something more pleasant for her mother's sake, trying to distract herself with thoughts of stolen kisses and turquoise eyes.

She poked at her eggs with her fork, looking down at the meal with disinterest. 

Robb and Theon weren't supping with them this morning- they were outside with the soldiers, Robb having called a meeting to discuss whatever their next course of action was. Robb was private with his battle plans but Sansa suspected that he was planning on leaving Riverrun soon, now that the Riverlands were more or less secured.

She wasn't sure how to feel about it or what would become of her now. Would she stay here and act as the lady of the castle, or go home to Winterfell where her brothers awaited her, or travel with Robb and advise him now that their lady mother was returning home? Her mother said something that Sansa didn't completely hear, though she was relieved that Roslin responded to it instead of her.

"I couldn't," Roslin graciously declined in her typical meek voice. She wasn't charming or confident like Cersei Lannister had been, but she had a demure quality to her that endeared her to the people. She was content just to be Robb's wife, surprisingly not seeming to care much about her title. It was a relief to see someone like her with Robb, especially considering who her father was. "My duty is here with my lord husband, the King in the North." Her words were rehearsed but didn't seem false.  Sansa recalled saying similar words about Joffrey between countless beatings and public humiliations.

She wondered when her mother would marry her off to some lord or another. It would probably come after the war, especially after everything she had nearly lost with Sansa's previous betrothal. She suspected Catelyn would try to keep Sansa as far North as she could manage- she'd probably be married off to some Riverlord, or perhaps a man from the Vale. Aunt Lysa's son Robert was the Lord of the Vale, wasn't he?

That match seemed to make the most sense, though the thought sent a ripple of nausea through her. He was only twelve, she told herself. If they were to marry, they'd wait a few years.

 _A prospect that once delighted you_ , she could still hear Cersei Lannister's horrid, beautiful voice in her ear. What if she were wed to a stranger, some man who would brutalize and mistreat her like Joffrey would have if their marriage had ever come to pass?  _No_ , she told herself sternly.  _Robb wouldn't let that happen to me_.

Mayhaps Robb would allow her to wed Theon. What brother wouldn't want a trusted friend and close comrade for his sister? The Iron Islands weren't so far away, not compared to King's Landing, and the match was as advantageous as any with the war ahead of them. Theon wouldn't ever hurt her, Sansa knew that. Pyke had a reputation for being dreary, and cruel to outsiders, but it couldn't be any worse than King's Landing.

She imagined herself dancing along the beaches and collecting seashells to weave through her hair, thinking that perhaps that fate wouldn't be the worst in the world.

"You're always welcome if you change your mind," Catelyn assured her good-daughter with a comforting smile. "Bran and Rickon will want to meet their new sister in due time." Roslin flushed a pretty pink, dipping her head in thanks. When her mother began telling the story of her first trip to Winterfell, Sansa allowed herself to fantasize and drift into her own world. She'd heard this story enough that she wouldn't need to know the finer details. 

* * *

“Sansa!" 

A voice she hadn't heard in years resounded through the room and for an instant, she thought she was hallucinating. She dropped the tunic she had been mending onto the floor, unable to control her knee-jerk reaction to seeing her sister again for the first time in years.

The girl was dressed horribly, head to toe in drab breeches and a cotton tunic. Her hair was clipped and only came down to her chin, and her look was grubby and unclean. But it was Arya all the same. Sansa cried her sister's name out in shock, scrambling out of her seat to embrace the shorter girl.

"You smell terrible," she admitted to her sister through tears. Arya froze for a moment before she broke out into a toothy grin. Her long lost sister almost looked like she was about to respond with an insult of her own, for old time's sake more than anything else, when a swarm of people flooded into the room with no warning, causing the two girls to grab at each other protectively. They must have been an odd sight to behold.

"Damn you, girl, quit your running-" Sandor Clegane roared as he stomped into the room, halting abruptly when he saw Sansa holding her sister close. Robb, Theon, Lord Cerwyn, Lord Umber all followed suit with a few Tully guards running forward to detain the former Kingsguard.

"Little Bird?" He rasped, his shift in tone uncomfortably noticeable to all of the men present. "You made it here after all," his voice sounded so much softer than she remembered it being but Sansa couldn't help but be confused at his mere presence here. Shouldn't he be guarding Joffrey in the capital? Sworn shields were for life, Sansa was certain of it. Robb looked at him with murderous eyes, silently daring Sandor Clegane to address his sister one more time. How dare he be so familiar with her? After Sansa's accounts of how most of the Kingsguard beat her at Joffrey's command, she couldn't blame Robb for hating the man on sight.

"Watch your tongue," Lord Umber spat at him viciously. "That's a Princess of the North you're speaking to-"

"I bloody well know who Sansa Stark is-" the Hound started before he remembered why he had come into the room, pointing the younger Stark sister out for all to see. "See her right there? The little one? Tell me that whelp isn't your sister and I'll be on my way."

"Just pay him and be done with it, Robb," Arya snapped at her brother, surprising everyone with her hostility towards her savior. She extracted herself from Sansa's hug to bound over to her brother, standing at his side as if to gang up on the Hound. "I don't want to see that ugly bastard's face again as long as I live." 

Sansa stepped back, her eyes round as saucers while everyone stared at Arya. Robb didn't even know what to say, his reaction to seeing his sister so very different from when Sansa had been presented to him at the castle gates. Theon broke the silence with disbelieving laughter, nearly howling at the way that Arya addressed the man. Lord Cerwyn joined in, not knowing what else to do with the awkwardness of the situation at hand, and Arya joined in with a chuckle or two as well.

When they quieted down, Robb turned to his sister and knelt so that they could look one another in the eyes. "Did this man hurt you, Arya?"

Arya turned her glare onto Sandor Clegane, her eyes alight with a hatred Sansa hadn't seen since the incident with Joffrey at the Trident. "Never me, but he killed Mycah -the butcher's boy-  and countless others. He stole from the smallfolk and hurt-"

"All to get you here, girl." The Hound sneered, effectively cutting her off. He turned his glare onto Robb who tried not to flinch at the sight of the terrifying man and resolutely didn't look at the burned half of his face. "I returned her to you, Stark. I'd like my pay now."

"How much would you find suitable?" Robb asked, ever practical as he appraised the man before him. 

"Five hundred gold dragons," The Hound gritted back immediately, to which Robb's bannermen all raised a stir.

"Five hundred gold dragons?" Theon repeated incredulously amidst the other shouts of protest. "What kind of thieving son of a-"

“Five hundred gold dragons," Robb affirmed to which Theon gaped at him, likely wondering what was going through his King's head. He had more sense than to question him openly though, bristling as his point was brushed aside. He nodded at the guards, who released Clegane and left presumably to fetch his bounty.

"Anything else?" Robb continued, causing everyone to stare at him as if he had grown another head. Sandor nodded once and Arya fumed at the sight. Before long, Catelyn Stark was sprinting into the room, her eyes wild as she searched for her youngest daughter.

* * *

“He fancies you, you know," Theon commented, trying to seem nonchalant as Sansa turned a page of the book she'd been reading. It was about Daeron the Good and how he had created Summerhall, a grand castle that was now reduced to nothing but ruins. She glanced up at him from where they were sitting on a shared chaise, offering him a confused smile.

They were in the Lord Paramount's study which served as a library to the Tully household, hoping to get away from everyone else in the castle. Just spending time together brought a little light to her day, especially with Mother so preoccupied with getting Arya settled in.

Sansa set her book down on her lap after folding the top of her page to keep her place. "Who does?" 

"Clegane," he scoffed, trying to conceal whatever insecurities he had about the man. Sansa was puzzled. Was it because the Hound was taller than him? The thought was laughable to her. He was so  _old._  Was Theon truly threatened? "He wants you. You can see it in his eyes."

"And mine?" Sansa challenged, suddenly emboldened now that Theon was looking at her with that look of his, the one that said everything and nothing at once. Her heart felt so full just being in his company, almost bursting with every thump. "What do you see in my eyes?"

Theon licked his lips, his arm coming around Sansa's shoulder with a familiarity that she still hadn't quite gotten used to. His gaze never wavered but only softened. When words failed him, he dipped forward to press his lips against hers chastely. When they separated and continued with their reading, she couldn't help but let her eyes wander back to his.

How was she supposed to read about the Dornish Marches when all she could think about were Theon's lips against hers?

* * *

 "Have I ever told you about my sister, Lysa?"

Sansa looked up from her needlework to find that her mother was still staring intently at the dark green fabric on her lap. The pair of women were making dresses for her, a necessary endeavor considering that all of Sansa's own clothes too tight for wear and all of Catelyn's hand-me-downs were now short to accommodate her. She'd been back in Riverrun for almost a year now, and the reality of it all still took her by surprise.

Sansa was working away on a half-made light blue gown, the fabric thick and drab but practical all the same. Once she would have begged for silk and lace, but now she couldn't stomach the sight of such things. Her old style of gown reminded her too much of too-tight corsets and dagger-like smiles.

She tried to remember everything her mother told her about her sister- she was two years younger than Catelyn, she had a son in the Vale, she used to be married to the former Hand of the King, she had red hair and blue eyes like every Tully did, she giggled a lot in her youth, she favored powdered pastries over lemon cakes... other than the basics, Sansa couldn't recall any specific stories about the woman. Had Aunt Lysa declared for them? It was about time, now that Arya had been back for a handful of weeks and news had gotten around Westeros that the Lannisters had lost both of the bargaining chips they'd had to work with.

"You've mentioned her," Sansa responded politely, not particularly interested in hearing about a distant member of her family who turned her back on them.

"She was always a sweet thing," Catelyn smiled wistfully and looked around the room as if she had been transported to another time altogether. "We grew up together in these very halls, you know. Sometimes I close my eyes and I can still hear the sound of her laughter. She laughed so much in our youth." Now the smile had left her face completely. "I hadn't seen her in years until I visited the Vale. It was when you were in King's Landing with your father and sister."

"Had she changed much?" She asked, not particularly caring but knowing that it was the right thing to ask.

"Too much." Catelyn's responded. "She isn't the same woman she used to be. Her time in the capital changed her; it made her paranoid, quick to anger, hostile... she was there for so long, and I only wish I could have been there with her. I only lived at court for a short time, but Lysa spent most of her life at King's Landing."

"She must have hated it there." Sansa guessed, a little more sympathetic to her aunt's plight knowing that she had also suffered under Queen Cersei's queenship. The wretched woman must have tortured her, especially with their husbands being such close friends. She couldn't imagine what a harpy she probably was in her youth, what with so much newfound power and a king that she hated. The thought made her shiver.

"She did. She once threatened to have me executed for writing to her about fostering little Robert at Winterfell," Catelyn chuckled as if she had just told a grand joke. Sansa blinked with confusion when her mother's voice sobered again, now sounding bitter for a reason that Sansa couldn't even begin to guess. "You must have met Petyr while you were at court. He  _used_  to be a good friend of mine, back when I was a girl. He serves the king as the Master of Coin."

Yes, she knew him.

 _Do you deny your father's crime?_   She recalled him asking, from the left side of Joffrey on the day that she pled with him to show her father mercy.

When she heard rumors among the nobles in King's Landing that he'd betrayed her father somehow, Sansa began regarding Littlefinger with distrust. If he was friends with her mother, surely he would have been honor-bound to  _try_  to help her during her time at court. Where was he when Joffrey pointed a crossbow at her and had his guards strip her naked? Probably laughing with the other nobles, Sansa supposed. 

"I didn't know him well," Sansa eventually answered, unsure of where this was going. "He never paid me much mind."

"Lysa was madly in love with him when we were girls." The slightest smile curved on Catelyn's lips, as if in remembrance of her childhood friendships.

"Was she?" The thought amused Sansa, though she didn't know why. Lord Baelish was... strange. He had an air about him, like every word he said was a blatant lie and every secret he told was an act of sabotage. It was hard to imagine him being the object of anyone's affections, least of all her mother's sister. 

"Oh yes. He was all she ever talked about. The three of us were as thick as thieves once, running through the godswood like little children. Poor Edmure was always left in dust when Lysa, Petyr, and I were involved. Petyr was our father's ward- your grandfather. He grew up with us."

Sansa's interest was piqued for the first time during this conversation.

"Petyr and Lysa..." she sighed resignedly, "-I don't know what they did, but it had to have been something. I suspected they were having an affair long before Lysa told me. I cautioned her against it, of course. It will only bring you pain, I said to her. Father was discussing marrying her to Jaime Lannister and- Gods, the idea of it seems so ridiculous now." Catelyn laughed with a shake of her head, likely pondering over what had all become of them. Lysa in the Vale, Petyr in the capital, Catelyn back in her childhood home, and Jaime thoroughly disgraced for lying with his sister.

"When the Kingslayer first joined the Kingsguard, Father struggled to find someone new for Lysa. They got closer then, Lysa and Petyr, always whispering in the corner of the room together. She fell in love with him." Catelyn looked at her own stitchwork, in another world of her own.

That was... unexpected. It sounded untrue to Sansa's ears though she supposed her mother had no reason to lie. "I'm confused," she voiced her thoughts aloud. "I thought Lord Baelish challenged Uncle Brandon for  _your_  hand. Why would he do that if he loved Aunt Lysa?"

Her mother looked embarrassed. "I can't begin to wonder what Petyr was thinking when he did that. He told me that he wanted to marry me once, but I told him he was mad. All I dreamed of was marrying your Uncle Brandon and going North. Petyr was never- he was a brother to me, though I suppose he didn't see it that way. Father was so cross with him for humiliating us that day, we could hear him screaming all the way from the godswood," a bit of the humor seeped back into her voice. "I didn't speak to Petyr much at all after that. Soon enough, your Aunt Lyanna was abducted and then Brandon went South... before long, I married your father in the same sept that Robb married Roslin in. Perhaps you'll get married here too someday."

Sansa said nothing, unable to imagine a wedding for herself anytime soon. Catelyn sighed and continued with her story.

"Petyr was never a good match for Lysa. He was our family's ward and though he was of noble blood, he couldn't marry into our house. Lysa always knew that she would have to marry for politics. As daughters of a great house, it's always been our duty," Mother said pointedly and now Sansa began to feel nervous. All this talk of marriage meant that she was getting at something. Dread crept upon her but she forced her face to remain blank while her mother droned on.

"Our father and his father were the best of friends in their youth- a lot like your father and King Robert were once. Father agreed to foster Petyr so that he could make a name for himself beyond being the sole heir to the Fingers. There was no advantage to marrying Lysa to Petyr, not when he was already bound to our family from the time that he was a boy." Catelyn's eyes were piercing into Sansa's and she felt her nerves biting at her. Why was she looking at her like that?

"When Lysa brought her proposal to Father, he rejected it and demanded that Petyr be sent away immediately to protect Lysa's honor. She was heartbroken for months- years, even. I wanted to shake her and beg her to not be daft. If she'd gotten the chance, I know Lysa would have shirked her duties and run off with him. They would have married in the dark of the night and been disinherited the moment the sun rose, if Petyr had stayed in Riverrun. Lysa was always a lonely girl, Sansa. I wonder if I could have spared her the pain of having and losing him if I'd just spoken to her about it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sansa finally asked, needing to know what her mother was getting at.

Catelyn appraised her for a moment and knocked the wind out of her with one cutting statement. "Theon Greyjoy isn't an acceptable match for you."

Sansa stiffened and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. She forced her voice not to waver as she looked down at her stitchwork, her hands shaking traitorously as she tried to think of something that would end this conversation. "I don't know what you mean, Mother."

"Do you truly think I haven't noticed what's been going on between the two of you?" She snapped at her, sounding more angry than anything else. "The looks, the smiles, the secret meetings in the gardens? I grew up here, Sansa. I'd be willfully blind not to see it."

"Mother-"

"I know you must feel alone, sweet girl." Catelyn moved forward and knelt before her, placing both hands on top of Sansa's. Her eyes shone with misplaced anger, though Sansa knew she was probably more angry with Theon than her. "I don't hold that against you. When Brandon died, I couldn't imagine ever being happy again. But I gave your father a chance. I wouldn't have you or Robb or Arya or Bran or Rickon, without the love your father and I grew to feel for each other."

Sansa sucked in a deep breath, willing words to come out of her before her mother kept at what she was saying. She couldn't breathe-

"You're my eldest daughter, Sansa. As much as I wish I could tell you to follow your heart, you have a responsibility to this family. You have a responsibility to Robb to marry whoever he deems fit. You could be what ends this war, Sansa. A dalliance with that boy is pointless. A Greyjoy can't be trusted-" 

"It's different with me and Theon," Sansa insisted, unable to bear her mother speaking ill of Theon right in front of her. "It's just- different."  

"I'm sure it is," Mother echoed, with a pitying look on her face that Sansa just  _hated_. She squeezed at Sansa's lifeless hands, pleading with her to heed her warnings before it was too late. "You must end it with him, Sansa, before this gets out of hand. You have to consider your reputation. To be seen with such a boy... we'll make you a good match, Sansa, I promise that we will. But not with Theon Greyjoy. " 

Madness overtook her then. "And if I've already lain with him?" 

Catelyn recoiled if she had been slapped, "Sansa!" She cried out, aghast that her daughter would say such a thing.

Sansa locked eyes with her mother defiantly and just as they were at a standstill, the sound of laughter came from behind the door. Sansa turned before Catelyn did, flashing a winning smile at her brother when he burst through the door with Edmure at his heels.

He was alight with happiness, a true change to how moody he had been acting since his former lover left Riverrun all those moons ago. Robb seemed happy enough with his new bride but there had still been a somber quality to him for the past few weeks. She wondered if she would feel that way too if Mother forced Theon to leave as Sansa had done with Talisa.

Perhaps all of this was a cruel jest played by the gods to punish her for her intervention and hypocrisy. 

"What's happened?" Sansa inquired, disentangling her hands from her mother's and rising from her seat to acknowledge her brother. She could see her mother follow suit from the corner of her eye, but couldn't drown out the rapid beating of her heart in her ears. Had she truly just said that to her? What was she thinking?

"Mother, Sansa, you won't believe it," Robb ran to Sansa and gripped at her hands. His eyes were crinkled around the edges and his smile radiant. "Roslin's with child. The maester just told us. She wasn't sure at first, so she thought she'd get a second opinion. Can you believe it, Mother? Me, a father!"

Sansa slipped away as soon as she could, not wanting to waste time with this conversation any longer.

* * *

Sansa made a face as she appraised the glove she had been mending for Robb. It wasn't her best work, that was for sure, with shoddy ends of string sticking out of the tough material. Oh well. It wasn't like he would be wearing them for a ceremony or feast, especially considering they were already bloodstained and worn almost beyond repair. The holes she'd stitched up were good enough that he would just have to make do.

Robb was in the castle with Roslin, likely wanting to spend the night with her and not in a dusty old tent. It was late enough that no one would interrupt her, not when she was holed away in her brother's vacant tent. Oddly enough, this was always where she'd felt safest in Riverrun. Perhaps it was because it was such a small space with so few people coming in to occupy it.

Robb had always been her favorite brother, even above Bran. Every time she had a spat with Arya that Septa Mordane unsatisfactorily resolved, Robb would hold her tight and listen to her complain for hours on end. Now they were all back together, desperately pretending that nothing had changed.

She set the pair of gloves down on the small table before her, wondering what else she could do to busy herself before she went back to her own chambers within the castle walls. Should she just sleep here? It's not like Robb did often, instead choosing to sleep in his war room on the makeshift bed he had crafted out of furs. She eventually decided on penning another letter to Jon, worried about what was busying him so much that he hadn't gotten the chance to write her back. She was a few sentences in before someone entered the tent loudly, causing her to drop her quill onto the ground in shock.

"You asleep, you cheeky bastard? I ought to-" Theon stopped short, his eyes wide with embarrassment as he realized that she was occupying the room, not Robb. He was smiling wider than he usually did, traces of it still left on his face even after the surprise had worn out. "Oh. I thought Robb was here."

"He isn't," Sansa responded, standing up so that she could approach him with an odd look in her eyes, full of intent that he couldn’t quite figure out. "Disappointed?"

Theon eyed the entrance of the tent warily, eventually realizing that no one else would be joining them. "With you?" He strolled up to her with all the arrogance he could muster, only letting his walls down when she cocked her head at him in silent question. "Never," he breathed, an inch away from her.

They met in the middle, Sansa's lips pressing urgently against his as he dropped the flagon he'd been holding when he came into the room. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, the kiss only growing more heated as they continued. It was risky, doing this here when Robb could decide to come back at any moment. Theon drank her in like a man dying of thirst and ignored the wine pooling at their feet in favor of his lover.

Without a moment of pause, Sansa was shoving him away from her and onto the bed of furs adjacent to the scribe desk. Theon's body instantly relaxed upon impact with the soft material of the bed, their lips connected as soon as Sansa pounced on him once more.

What happened to the sweet girl who was scandalized at the mere thought of walking around with a man unchaperoned?

Theon was too aroused to truly allow himself to be confused by the turn of events, melting into the kiss despite every bit of sense screaming at him not to paw at her like some kind of animal. 

Sansa rolled her body against his, eliciting an unintentional groan from him. Though he couldn't control the way his hands were groping at her body, something in him made him pull back from her a little. If he didn't stop her now, he wasn't sure that he would be able to resist this for much longer.

"We shouldn't," Theon gasped against her neck, his hands skimming underneath her skirts to grasp at her bare thighs. Gods, it pained him to say that.

"We should," Sansa disagreed, her fingers fumbling to undo the clasps of his jerkin as she tilted her neck further back to give him more access. She wanted this and wanted him. No one would be able take this away from her, not even if she was married off to a man halfway across the bloody continent. 

His jacket fell to the ground to which she began unlacing the fronts of her dress, the contraption too complicated for her to want to put in the effort. Once it was off of her, her hands flew to her scarf, yanking it off before working on her corset. Theon watched on in disbelief and awe as more of Sansa's clothes fell to the ground, wondering if this was some kind of life-like dream that he would wake from at any second.

He snapped to his senses when the corset came down, revealing Sansa in just her smallclothes. This was really happening, wasn't it?

Well... if she was sure, who was he to stop her? It was the middle of a war! If he died on the battlefield, maybe she'd never know true pleasure. That must be a crime in the eyes of the gods, right?

That rationale was good enough for Theon, his hands immediately moving to strip his tunic off and rid himself of his trousers.

Then everything was off and Sansa was upon him once more, her hands splayed across his chest as she straddled him, more confident than he had ever imagined she would be in this sort of situation. They fell against the furs of the bed, devouring each other like it was their last day on earth. She moaned and he thought he'd never heard anything so intoxicating in his life.

Fuck, what if Robb walked in and found them like this?

Theon prayed that he'd chosen to spend the night in the war room or better yet, inside the castle. When her hand reached over to grasp at his member, his breath came out in a disbelieving stutter. 

"Sansa, your virtue-" He started halfheartedly, his hands tangled in her hair and eyes darkened with desire. He didn't want to put an end to this but his conscience wouldn't let him rest if she truly didn't know what she was getting herself into. Did Sansa know what she was risking by being with him like this?

"I don't care," she cupped his cheeks, her eyes boring into his with certainty. "I want you." His throat closed up, unable to comprehend what was happening. He blinked, as if expecting to awaken from a dream. 

She wanted him, not some lordling who'd buy her from her family in return for an army they'd only use a handful of times. She wanted himto take her maidenhead.

She wanted _him_.

He kissed at her hair, his hands roaming over her body before he flipped her onto her back, pinning her to the soft material of the bed beneath them. 

"Only you," Sansa whispered as he peppered scorching kisses along her neck, her legs wrapping around his middle to draw him closer. It was as if they were made for each other, the way she fit against him.

Theon kissed her slowly, wondering what good honor would do them now, especially when death was at their doorstep. Nothing, probably, so what was the harm in doing something for pleasure? 

He drowned in her kiss like the captain of a sinking ship. And gods, he would drown twice over if it meant that he could feel her touch.

Their hurried kisses evolved into more languid ones as his fingers prodded at her quim, gently dipping into her wetness so as to prepare her for what was to come. She sighed into his mouth, her legs spreading as his hand began rubbing at her cunt vigorously. Her breathing grew more unsteady, her brows drawn together at the feeling of him pleasuring her. Had she ever done this to herself? Theon wondered, heat consuming him at the thought that he would be the first to touch her in this way— that he would be the first to bring her to peak, and the first to push inside of her, the first to see her fall apart like this. It was maddening.

A part of his mind that was simultaneously dark and hopeful thought about what would happen if his seed took root in her; if she swelled with his child, a permanent marker that they belonged to each other no matter what politics and propriety dictated.

He wanted to spill inside of her over and over again until she was his in every sense of the word. He had been hers from the moment she curled up to him in their bed at the inn, each thump of his heartbeat seeming to call her name.

 

A lifetime had passed when he removed his hand, kissing at her neck as she arched against him. He positioned himself over her, his hand settling at her cheek so as to look into her eyes when he fucked her.

Proper lovers practiced that sort of intimacy, he knew, and he was determined to make this as good for her as he could manage. He cherished Sansa as he had cherished no woman before her; she deserved the world if it was in his power to give to her.

Sansa’s eyes fluttered when he pushed his cock into her entrance, her mouth popping open and her eyes as bright as he had ever seen them. He paused for a moment as she clenched around him, the tightness of her quim easily the best feeling he had ever felt. 

“More,” she whispered as he slowly began swiveling his hips, her breath hitching with each thrust he made into her. She was digging her nails into his back as they moved together for the first time; every breath, every gasp felt as if they were made for each other. 

She was a vision, splayed out before him like a goddess from all of the myths and legends.

He quickened his pace somewhat and she fell apart, her moans louder and more frequent now that his cock was pushing in and out of her, her legs wrapping around his hips in encouragement. He kissed her messily as she cried out, his hand squeezing at her breast while she mewled underneath him.

The pair of them were joined as one now, every thrust heightening their shared desire for _more_.

He made love to her twice on Robb's bed, wondering how any kind of betrayal could taste this sweet.

* * *

Theon awoke before Sansa did and couldn't stop himself from reaching out to brush her hair out of her face. He had never seen anyone so beautiful in his life, he was sure of it. She reduced him to the shy little boy he had been back when he'd first come to Winterfell, vulnerable and desperate for a sliver of affection.

How had someone so perfect chosen  _him_ , of all the men in the world? She was still nude and pressed up against him, their legs tangled together underneath the warmth of the bed's furs. Her head rested on his chest, her tangled red hair splayed out in nearly every direction.

Gods, he loved her, didn't he?

He couldn't imagine wanting anything more than this, envisioning an impossible future for himself where this was their home. The waves would crash against the beaches outside and they would be in bed together, the rest of the world deaf to their ears. Two children- no,  _four_  children would come rushing towards them and jump on their bed to wake their sleeping parents. They would all have curly hair and blue-green eyes, Theon decided. A few redheads here, a few with dark locks there. They would name one Eddard and another Alannys. Maybe a Lyarra and a Torrhen. He'd be a warrior for certain, with a name like Torrhen. Yes, he liked that. 

The dream died quickly in his head as he looked upon her and her angelic expression, realizing that a marriage between them could never come to pass.

She'd be married off within a few years and he'd likely never see her again. It would have been difficult enough before but now... all he could do was anticipate the feeling of his heart cracking within his chest.

For now, she was his, though he had no idea how long it would last.

"Theon." 

His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He sat up abruptly, his eyes blown wide with fear as he locked eyes with the man who'd just entered the tent. Cradling the girl in his arms, he prayed to all of the gods that he wouldn't recognize Sansa. Who was he kidding?

With hair like that, any Essosi and his mother would be able identify her. He locked eyes with the intruder, wondering just how stupid he was to have stayed the night here -in this tent, of all places- without thinking through the consequences.

How could he even begin talk his way out of this?  _I'm sorry I fucked your sister_  were the only words that came to mind and even Theon wasn't enough of an idiot to say it out loud. He braced himself for what was to come, unsure of whether to expect a thorough beating or clean execution.

Sansa stirred as the furs dipped low to hang at her hips, her breasts hidden with how she was pressed against Theon's side. Robb made a disgusted sound at the sight but didn't look away; it almost reminded him of all the times Lord Eddard would force them to watch executions outside of Winterfell's gates.

When she finally awoke, she drew in a sharp breath and clutched the furs back up to her chest. He could feel her staring at him from the corner of his eye, as if she hoped he could conjure up a convincing enough lie to justify why they were in bed together as naked as their nameday. 

"Robb, I-" He began, unsure of how he could even begin to justify this to his friend, least of all after being caught in the act of sleeping with his sister.

"You missed the war council. We ride for Casterly Rock in a fortnight." Robb instructed in a monotone, the quiet fury behind his eyes and the way he was clenching his fists tipping Theon off to the fact that he had truly fucked up. "Get dressed. Now."


	3. the future i just can't touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to ADWD all of you but this chapter reached 15k and I wasn't even halfway done with my outline soooo the story's going to be extended by another two chapters! Thank you for your patience and the amazing reception you've given me!

“Robb!” Theon called out hoarsely, a branch cracking painfully beneath the sole of his bare foot as he struggled to catch up to his friend. It wasn't a particularly pretty day, damp as always with grey skies. Men were going about their business, saddling their horses and packing up for the journey ahead of them.

About half of the tents had already been taken down, leaving only dirt in their place. 

He tried not to shiver under the harsh morning breeze as he struggled to catch up to Robb, goosebumps littering his skin underneath his hastily pulled on tunic. “Robb, wait.” 

Robb didn’t stop, stalking forward with intention, deliberately ignoring the calls of his name. His shoulders were tense and squared, even with the armor he was wearing. Theon thought to try to grab him to get his attention but decided against it, instead calling his name again. 

A few curious eyes turned their way, likely wondering if the two men were in the middle of a spat. They were probably glad of it, Theon thought bitterly. Neither the Northmen nor the Riverlords bore him any love here, not when Robb usually favored his counsel over his other bannermen. _Lord Greyjoy_ , they always sneered at him as if the title was a grand joke to them. 

They acted like they'd warmed up to him when he brought Sansa home, yes, but most of the time they pretended he hadn't. _The North Remembers_ , he scoffed. What a load of horseshit. They only remembered what they wanted to remember.

A man from Pyke couldn't be a hero in their eyes, not when they could retreat to their fairy stories about pirates plundering their lands and stealing their daughters. He had few friends here, most of whom only enjoyed his company when they were drunk out of their minds. They would probably see him hanged if they knew about what he'd done with Sansa.

Oh well. There were worse ways to die, especially in times like these. He could be drawn and quartered, he supposed. Or impaled, though he always thought of Robb as the type to favor beheading. The thought of Sansa weeping over his cold corpse made him frown, his stomach clenching painfully at the prospect of dying.

He could still die, couldn't he? If he were any other man, Robb would have put a sword through his belly the moment he saw them together. Perhaps he'd just be exiled to the Wall instead, or sent to another camp to aid in the war efforts, or be put on the front lines.

”Robb, please.” Theon pleaded quietly as he shuffled alongside his friend, willing Robb to just tell him his fate and be done with it.

They were crossing the drawbridge now, men clearing their path and bowing for their king as they headed for the castle of Riverrun. Robb’s jaw ticked, but he still said nothing.

Theon felt desperation begin to creep at him, “Robb.“ His voice was needy, much like the boy he'd been in their youth. “Robb, listen to me. I know you must be-“

”I’ll deal with you later, Theon.” Robb’s gritted out, still staring straight ahead of him as they entered the hall. A few servants looked up at them as they entered but returned to work quickly. He balled his fist as if to stop from reaching for the pommel of his sword. “Don’t make this worse for yourself.”

Theon bristled, irritated to be brushed off by Robb again. Even when they were on good terms, he had a way of making Theon feel insignificant. Like he had all the power, and Theon only got by on the charity of his company. Blood rushed to his ears as he tried to calm himself, albeit unsuccessfully.

Why shouldn't Robb hear him out? Were they supposed to make for Casterly Rock in stony silence, riding alongside each other as if there wasn't a wedge between them? As if they were strangers?

”Deal with me now,” Theon challenged arrogantly, cloaking his fears with a bravado he'd grown used to wearing when he was younger and put on airs for the whores at the winter town’s brothel.

When Robb kept walking, he stopped in his tracks, standing in the doorway to the foyer. “I never took you for a craven, _Lord_ Stark”

Robb halted, just as Theon knew he would. He didn’t turn around but he did draw in a deep breath as if to try to ground himself.

”Shut up, Theon.” Robb's voice was strained, seemingly taking all of his strength and concentration to refrain from attacking him.

“Why should I?” He half suspected he had a death wish with the best way he was talking to his king now, emboldened when the room resounded with silence. “If you’re going to run away from me like a cowardly little girl-“

“If you hope to keep your head,” Robb snarled coolly from where he too had come to a standstill, sounding more like a wolf than ever before. “-then I suggest you shut your damn mouth and stay  _away_ from my sister.”

”I love her, Robb.” Theon didn't know what else to say, having never actually said the words out loud.

”Oh, _do_ you?” His words were barbed with disbelief and biting insult, the meaning behind them cutting Theon deeper than any blade could.

”I do!” Theon insisted, defensive of his feelings for her despite the discomfort he felt at voicing them out loud. “With everything I have-"

”Spare me the pretty words,” Robb spat disgustedly as if he couldn't bear to hear any more of this, swiveling around to face him now that his patience had run out entirely. “If you truly loved Sansa, you wouldn’t have shamed her-”

“The way you didn’t shame that Volantene girl of yours, is that right?” Theon’s temper got the better of him, though he regretted it instantly when Robb's eyes ignited with a pain that he had long repressed. He kept going though, the idiot he was. "I recall how much you _loved_ that one. Admirable of you, to fuck her proper before packing her off for your bannermen to have a go-"

”Don’t talk about her, Theon!” Robb’s voice raised considerably, his eyes alight with frustrated tears. Theon stepped back with surprise at the sight. Robb was breathing heavily, eyes wild at the mention of the woman he'd left behind. "This isn't about her! This is about my _sister_."

Robb's voice broke on the word and he drew in a haggard breath, anguish and anger flashing through his eyes. "I trusted you to protect her, not bed her like a common whore!"

The darkness that had been edging at Theon for so long manifested through resentment. He had just been kidding himself, thinking that he could ever find a home with the Starks. He would always be on the outskirts, just a step away from truly being one of them, but a step too far to ever do it. Who was Theon Greyjoy compared to the  _King in the North_? 

”I wouldn't say that," a bitter smile curved on Theon's lips, drawn up in a grotesque impression of the smirk he usually wore. He lifted his chin to look into his king's questioning gaze. "Sansa's a finer fuck than any whore I've ever had. Unmatched in skill, actually-"

When Robb’s fist collided with the side of his jaw, he really couldn’t blame him.

Theon staggered backward, too shocked to react before Robb was on him again. The back of his head hit the ground with a sickening thump, his hands coming up of their own accord to try and block the barrage of fists slamming into his face.

He spluttered up blood after the first few hits but it did nothing to deter Robb, one fist holding him on the ground as another came down upon him. Over and over and over again, punches doubled down on him.

He lost track of how many times he'd been struck when the weight was suddenly lifted off of him. He drew in a haggard breath, not knowing what to expect now that he was free. He breathed through his busted nose, wondering who had decided to take pity on him.

"Your Grace," a voice cautioned, unfazed by the bleeding man on the floors inches away from him. Theon rolled over to his side, wheezing as he tried to come to. His vision was blurred and spotty and his _nose_ \- seven hells, his nose hurt. Theon's palms found the ground, pushing himself up briefly before the spinning in his head brought him down again. "-the time for this," The person murmured, barely discernable to Theon's ears.

A moment passed before someone knelt beside him, shaking him lightly before putting a hand on his elbow. "Wake up, boy."

The Blackfish sighed, exerting a little weight to help Theon get up. "A word of advice?"

Theon staggered as soon as he was standing but was steadied by a hand on his shoulder. The world around him was bright and spinning, and all he could taste was copper.

"I don’t want it, old man," Theon slurred, his swollen mouth already blooming with pain. Blood dribbled down his cheek as his vision steadied at last. Seven hells, Stark packed a punch. He wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, groaning at the amount of blood that pooled into the fabric.

Robb was gone and only Brynden Tully stood before him, shaking his head as if Theon was the stupidest boy in the entire world.

* * *

Biting at her lower lip, Sansa tried her best to remain rooted where she was standing, her chin lifted high as she stood before her brother. She didn't dare leave, not after he'd caught her and Theon together. Considering he was back already, the conversation couldn't have gone over well. 

Neither of them had spoken, not since he entered his tent. Eventually, Robb had enough of the silence.

”What were you thinking?” He blurted out, exasperated and dazed. “Help me understand, Sansa. Did you do it to avoid another betrothal? To distract yourself? Did he take advantage of you? Are you... Sansa, please just- just say something so I can make sense of this.”

“I love him, Robb.” It was as simple as that.

Robb didn’t look any less bewildered. She recalled feeling the same way when she’d caught him with Talisa Maegyr, spouting off nonsense about how he’d make her his wife. The irony of this wasn't lost on her, especially not after she'd convinced him to send his own lover halfway across the country. 

This was different, Sansa rationalized to herself, determined to lose herself in her delusions. She wasn’t betrothed to anyone, nor was Theon. They were both unattached and highborn; the match made perfect sense to her, more than the ridiculous engagement her mother had negotiated for Arya and that Frey boy.

Gods, did Arya even know about that? 

Probably not, considering she hadn’t made an attempt to flee the castle yet. Perhaps Mother was waiting until the war was over to break the news.

“Since when?” The question hung in the air, Sansa silent so as not to implicate herself any more than she had to. He looked deeply uncomfortable as he followed it up with something that seemed to be eating away at him. “How long have you two...”

”Since the wedding,” Sansa breathed out.

”Ah.” He had a faraway look in his eyes as if the information was still sinking in.

Did that make it better or worse? Perhaps he thought that their affair began on the ship, when it was just Theon and Sansa and the sea, alone with naught to do but speak to one another. Or did he think that it was more recent? A drunken mistake made out of loneliness and convenience?

Did he even consider that they were in love?

”Are you upset with me?”

”I’m not sure what to think,” Robb admitted as if it pained him to speak, “I didn’t expect this from you.”

A hot flash of guilt flooded through her.

“There’s so little to be happy about anymore,” Sansa started softly, her fingers picking at the sleeves of yesterday’s gown. It was wrinkled and clearly in need of a washing, but it was all she had to wear. “I fell in love with him, Robb. I didn’t plan it. For so long he was just Theon and then.. don’t hurt him, Robb, please. My heart would die if anything happened to him, it would.”

They’d crossed a line last night, one that they wouldn’t be able to come back from. She couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone else, childish as the thought may be.

He breathed out a gust of air, brows drawn together as if this were the most difficult conversation he’d ever had.

“He had no right to touch you, Sansa,” he didn’t look her in the eyes. “What he did to you is punishable by death. It’s treason.”

Sansa‘s heart froze over. Where she would have once begged for Theon’s life, she felt steel course through her veins.

“You won’t hurt him,” her voice only trembled a little when she spoke, her chin lifted in defiance. Robb cherished Theon as much as she did and for far longer too; the idea of him harming him was inconceivable. “You love Theon.”

Robb looked away and she knew she was getting through to him, little by little. “Be that as it may, he betrayed me.”

She couldn't hold herself back this time. ”And you betrayed me when you left me to die in King’s Landing.”

Perhaps it was cruel to bring up but it needed to be said. It was a weight that hung over the two of them since her return to Riverrun over a year prior. If Theon hadn't saved her from King's Landing, she might still be there. She might be Joffrey's _Queen_ , forced to bear her father's murderer babes and smile prettily at him as if she didn't want him dead with every fiber of her being. He would have left her there without thinking twice of it.

He was silent then, staring at her with disbelieving eyes. “Sansa, I-“

“Promise me,” Sansa demanded, “I’ll never forgive you if you hurt him, Robb, you know I won’t.” Her words were dripping with spite, trying as hard as she could to hurt him so that he would _understand_. “Do this for me. Please. Promise me that you won't hurt him or send him away or put him in a cell. Promise me and I won't bring it up again.”

He glanced away, weighing his options 

“I need to think about it, Sansa.”

That was better than nothing, but it still wasn't enough.

“I need you to promise me now. Tell me you won’t hurt him, Your Grace.”

She glared at him, watching his resolve crack under the pressure of it all. He winced when she used his proper title, rubbing a circle into his temple while she watched him expectantly.

Eventually, he gave in and granted her some comfort that he wouldn’t be exiled in the middle of the night. 

“Fine,” he sighed. “I won’t hurt him.” 

Robb was still staring at her, perplexity alight in his expression. "Sansa," he started gently, careful not to upset her again. "I didn't think you even looked twice at Theon, let alone... _loved_ him."

The word seemed to get caught in Robb's throat, and he looked exceedingly like he wanted to run far, far away from this conversation.

"I didn't expect it," Sansa divulged, staring out of the exposed flap of his tent. "I didn't think I'd ever feel this way about anyone, not after everything that’s happened." She felt the weight of Robb's incredulous eyes on her and hoped she was making sense. "He understood me. How I felt. What I needed. He cared about me when no one else did.”

 _When you didn’t_ , she wanted to scream. But if she said it, she couldn’t take it back. 

“How could I not love him?”

Robb stood up and left the tent without another word.

* * *

"He dishonored your sister and you think to reward him?" Catelyn shrieked, her wrath emanating off of her small frame.

Robb leaned against the heavy wooden table, his head in his hands as he tried to clear his head. "It's not meant as a reward, Mother-" he started exhaustedly, huffing as soon as he was cut off by the hysterical woman once more.

"How is this not a reward?" She demanded, more furious than he had ever seen her. “Explain.”

He stared grimly at the ground, likely wishing he had never confided in his mother about what he’d seen. He ignored the burning in his bloodied knuckles in favor of the aching headache that was coming on. Neither was particularly enjoyable, but nothing about this afternoon was. Gods, he hated being king.

"Your father never would have given Sansa to _Theon Greyjoy._ Not in a thousand years, Robb, he wouldn't have. He would have taken that boy’s head for what he’s done to your sister. This is madness!”

Catelyn continued on her tirade, her tone sharpening all the more as her son looked upon her with exhausted eyes. “She is a Princess of the North, Robb. We could still marry her to someone. No one else has to know about this. Think of your bannermen-"

”Theon has always been loyal to our cause," Robb argued, letting his hand fall to his side. "He rescued Sansa from the Lannisters-"

"Only to take her for himself," his mother argued. Her long-standing distrust of Theon Greyjoy was finally validated, but at a deeper cost than she was willing to pay. She could just imagine how Ned would sigh and rub at his temples if he were here. 

"He says he loves her," Robb offered weakly, to which his mother gave him a chilling look. “Theon hasn't even been to the Iron Islands since he was a boy, Mother. He's fought with us and bled with us as much as any Northerner has. He's as much my man as any of the Umbers or Karstarks are." 

"And yet he's shamed you in your own home," Catelyn argued, crossing her arms over her chest. "He's dishonored Sansa-"

"Which is exactly why they need to marry, Mother." Robb reasoned with her. She looked at him as if he was speaking another tongue. "Like it or not, Sansa chose to do this. I swore to her that I wouldn’t hurt him, and I don’t intend to break that promise. I won't have my own sister shamed, not when I have the power to do something about it. This is the only solution there is.”

”The only solution?” Catelyn narrowed her eyes, disbelieving at the words coming out of her son’s mouth. “This is hardly the only solution! We could send him away to take the black. Or to Winterfell, to protect your brothers, or to White Harbor to gather more men. Anywhere but here. He can’t be trusted with her, Robb.”

"This is about honor, Mother. It’s Theon’s duty to marry her after what he’s done. It’s the right thing to do." He asserted, confident more than ever that this is what their father would want. It’s what he would have chosen for himself if not for Walder damn Frey. ”If Sansa consents to the match, I don’t see why I should stand in their way.” 

Of course Sansa would consent to the match, Catelyn thought bitterly, she told her as much just yesterday.

A dark part of her mind wondered if Sansa had orchestrated the entire thing to force Robb's hand; it was too convenient that the pair of them fell into bed together in Robb's own tent. She didn't expect Theon Greyjoy thought anything of it beyond wanting to bed a beautiful girl, but Sansa...

 _What happened to you, my sweet girl?_ She wanted to weep. _What have the Lannisters done to you?_

Catelyn's face was pinched when she spoke next. "And what of inheritance?" She demanded. "Balon Greyjoy won't relinquish the Iron Islands to Theon, especially not if he's tied to our family through marriage. What do you mean to do about his rebellion?"

Robb pursed his lips. He'd considered giving them a keep somewhere in the Riverlands or the North and just damning the Iron Isles to hell, but his bannermen would riot if Sansa was given to Theon without an alliance to show for it. No, they only had one option. 

"Theon will not be coming with me to Casterly Rock. I’m sending him away to take the Iron Islands in my name," he confessed, wincing at the way his mother's chair screeched against the ground as soon as he said the words. 

"What?" Catelyn's exclamation echoed through the room, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head at her son's change in heart.

"Once he and Sansa are wed, he‘ll take your uncle and a garrison of men to the islands. We need ships to take King's Landing, Mother," Robb spoke, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of the plan. "We need a naval force that can hold off our enemies. We can’t do this without him. With Theon as their lord and Sansa at his side, we’ll have three kingdoms loyal to us by blood. That’s three kingdoms united against the Lannisters.”

 _Four_ , Catelyn thought bitterly in remembrance of Robert Arryn, hidden away in the Vale like the scared boy he was. "You've spoken with Brynden about this?"

"Aye," Robb nodded curtly. "He suggested it."

Catelyn cursed her uncle, mourning a future that Sansa would never know. She could have had any man she wanted, from a Prince of Dorne to an heir of the Reach or the Vale. Instead she would have a barren land to rule over. She would get a scoundrel of a husband whose wandering eye would haunt Sansa every time she saw babes with sea-green eyes outside of her castle walls.

Catelyn had never been there but by all of Ned's accounts, it was a dreary, miserable place.

Sansa would hate it. She deserved to raise her children where the sun shone and flowers bloomed, not a rainy wasteland leagues from home. 

Gods, her daughter would be sold to the Greyjoys in exchange for _ships_. And just when she had gotten her back from the Lannisters' clutches. Catelyn's throat closed up, feeling tears begin to come on but willing herself to blink them back before they fell. 

"I know you don't agree but... it might be for the best. Theon's a good man. I trust him to make her happy. After everything she's been through, she deserves someone like that. Who better than someone raised alongside us, by our own father?”

Catelyn eyes him warily, biting her tongue to prevent herself from saying something that she would come to regret.

He was giving the boy too much power. The Iron Islands would be enough of an offering without marriage being involved at all, she wanted to scream. How could Robb not see that this was a mistake?

“If she doesn't want this, I wont force her hand. But Theon will be a lord, Mother, with ships and an army of his own. The match makes sense. I’m as angry with him as you are," somehow Catelyn doubted that, “but what’s done is done.”

"Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?" Catelyn asked numbly.

"My decision is final," Robb declared in a voice that sounded far too much like Ned’s for her comfort.

She gathered her skirts and excused herself, retiring to the comfort of her own chambers.

* * *

”I’ve heard that injuries make a man more attractive,” Theon leered at her, gesturing to his bleeding face with more humor than she would feel if the situations were reversed. “Is this doing anything for you?”

Sansa dabbed her damp cloth along the bruising underneath his eye. “No.”

”Not even a little bit?” He grinned, blood staining all of his front teeth from the fight he got into. They didn’t talk about it, though, not when every moment they spent in each other’s company could be their last.

”No.” she confirmed again but couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. 

* * *

"I can’t believe it," came a voice from the other side of the room. "Theon? Really?"

"Shut up, Arya."

Sansa's sister dissolved into a fit of giggles and stopped for nothing, even when Sansa hurled one of her pillows in her general direction. They were both lying on the beds in their shared chamber, Sansa staring up at the ceiling while Arya tried to amuse herself with one of Uncle Edmure's childhood toys.

Now Arya had moved onto a queer contraption that she stuck her fingers into, one that Sansa couldn't be bothered with trying to figure out. It was too silly for her, too childish after everything they’d seen and done. She wondered how Arya could bear to play with such things after what had happened to them.

Sansa let her eyes slide shut as soon as Arya quieted down, praying that she was safe from the mockery now.

Then to her chagrin, Arya spoke up, wrinkling her nose with disgust. “You didn’t do it in here, did you?”

"Arya! Shut up!" She sat up straight as soon as Arya said the words in that stupidly blunt way of hers, her cheeks painted with embarrassment as her sister yowled with laughter. She waited patiently for Arya to simmer down but the girl simply laughed more, rolling around on her bed like a rabid mutt.

"I hate you," Sansa grumbled finally, falling back onto her cushions as she willed this to end.

Arya howled as if it was the funniest jest she'd heard in her entire life. Sansa pursed her lips and turned to her side, trying to drown out the sound of her sister's jeers.

"You! It's just-" Arya's laughter made any words she said unintelligible but Sansa fumed at her jokes all the same. "- _Theon_!" 

"I told you to shut up!" Sansa shouted, sniffing with disdain when Arya snorted. She turned her nose up at her sister. "You just don’t understand what it’s like to be in love." 

That just spurred on more laughter, to which Sansa wasn't sure how to respond. She settled for clamping her hands over her ears to try to ignore the sounds of her sister mocking her for her choice in partner.

Eventually, the laughter ceased. Sansa opened her eyes, testing out the silence for herself.

"My apologies, sister." Arya started and Sansa turned back to look at her, surprised that her sister would offer her anything of the sort.

She blinked confusedly when Arya strode over to her side of the room and lowered herself onto the ground, stiff in her already-muddied gown as she got on her knees.

"I humbly beg that the Good Queen Sansa spares me of her wrath, lest her pirate lover's pet squid devours me whole- ah!" 

Sansa slammed her remaining pillow into Arya's face as soon as the apology took a turn for the worst, grinning at the sight of her sister's shocked expression.

She regretted her decision instantly when Arya pounced on her, the two girls tumbling onto Sansa's bed in a laughing heap.

There was no malice to their fight, not now that they were so much older than they had been in their youth. Yes, Arya was still a thorn in her side but it was nice having her around. Sometimes.

A knock sounded at the door and the sisters separated, looking worse for wear when Septa Betha entered the room.

She'd just arrived at Riverrun weeks earlier, requested specifically to teach Arya the virtues of a lady now that Sansa was a woman. 

Needless to say, Arya hadn’t been receptive to the change.

The old woman eyed the remains of Sansa's favorite pillow with mild amusement, feathers scattered around both guilty-looking girls as they gathered their bearings. Looking at her headscarf, Sansa's smile dimmed slightly, trying not to think about Septa Mordane's rotting head and lifeless brown eyes. 

"Sansa, dear, your mother needs you."

* * *

"The choice is yours,” Robb leaned back in his seat, nodding at his friend with an unprecedented formality about him.

Theon stared down at the table, uncomprehending what had just been offered to him. “I don’t.... understand,” he started slowly as if he thought this was a trick.

”What is there to understand? You’ll be Lord of the Iron Islands." Theon's heart stuttered in his chest- this had to be a dream. It had to be. Robb continued although his words were drowned out by Theon's racing thoughts. "As my loyal bannerman, you'll offer your ships to our cause once you’ve settled into your position."

He couldn't say anything, not when everything he ever wanted was being offered to him like it was nothing at all.

Robb sighed, seemingly mistaking his shock for reluctance. “You always knew that I would have to deal with your Father eventually, Theon. I understand your reservations about-“

”Damn my father to all the seven hells,” Theon blurted out frustratedly. “I don't care about that. Why aren’t you punishing me for what I did?”

Robb cracked a smile. “What, the beating from earlier wasn’t enough for you?”

Theon’s lip twitched, acutely aware of how badly his face had been mauled. His eye was swollen as was his mouth, his nose slightly crooked with a faint trail of unwashable blood etched into his skin underneath his nostrils.

”I won’t lie to you, Theon." Robb confessed, humor edging onto his otherwise grave look."I wanted to kill you the moment I saw you touching my sister. I would've run my sword through you if you were any other man. I suppose it was satisfying enough to kick you into the dirt.”

"I wish I could say the same," Theon huffed  out a laugh, "I fought like a green boy."

"Bold of you to use the word 'fight' at all," Robb smirked. "I'd call it a severe bashing if I was feeling generous. I don't think I've ever seen a man fall that fast in my life. It was quite impressive."

Theon's cheeks heated, but he couldn't find it in himself to chide Robb for giving him a hard time- not when he was being handed a lordship instead of an execution. He merely shook his head, trying not to grimace with pain when he smiled. He hadn't held back, that was for sure.

"You've always been a brother to me," Robb tested out slowly, "I would have you become my brother for true. In the eyes of the gods."

Theon felt his skin chill over. His jaw went slack, eyes scanning Robb's for any indication that he was being toyed with. "Robb-"

"My brother, now and always." He reached for Theon, holding him in place with two hands at either of his shoulders. "My sister deserves happiness after what she's been through. Someone kind, who'll put a smile on her face. Who’ll be true to her, keep to her bed, care for her, give her children... I'm putting my faith in you, Theon. Don't let me down."

”Never,” he swore breathlessly, looking Robb in the eyes earnestly. "I'll make her happy Robb, I swear it."

Robb leaned back, satisfied with the answer. "Good. Now get the fuck out of my room and see a bloody maester already."

* * *

Sansa leaned against the heart tree, breathing in the sweet smells of flowers around her. She dipped her quill into the vial of ink at her side and hummed a song to herself, her hair draped over one shoulder while she absorbed the rare afternoon sunshine. It was strange, to think she’d be married here in a matter of days.

Mother wanted the ceremony conducted in the Sept, but this made her feel closer to home. Closer to Father.  All her life, she'd wanted to be a Southron princess who wore intricate braids and fine silks. She didn't want that anymore. She would do this the Northern way, even if they couldn't be at Winterfell. 

She had wanted to wait until they could go home but Robb insisted on having it over and done with right away. Mother argued with him for hours about the matter, fighting to have this done properly to no avail. It was practical, he said, to ensure that she wouldn’t birth a bastard while Theon was away at war, and so that no one would feel inclined to push for a betrothal pact with Sansa in the aftermath of the fighting.

Sansa skimmed a hand over her flat stomach. Could she be with child right now and not even know it? The thought was as terrifying to her as it was exhilarating. Would she even know how to care for a babe? Where would she even start?

Roslin would surely help her, now that she would have to do it for herself soon. Their sons and daughters would be the best of friends, Sansa thought to herself hopefully, running through the halls of Winterfell just like she had done with her own siblings. They would laugh and smile and build a better world than the one their parents lived in...

No, she couldn’t get wrapped up in fantasies now. Not when she had work to do. 

She was penning another letter to Jon, gladdened by the news that he had recently returned from North of the Wall. He wrote to her of mammoths the size of trees and of wildling raids, and of all sorts of fantastical things she couldn’t even begin to picture for herself... what piqued her interest the most was his vague account of a girl he fell in love with beyond the Wall. It was all very appealing to Sansa's romantic sensibilities. 

He had gone quite some time without writing her back, to the point where she’d feared the worst. If anyone other than Jon was writing to her about these things, she’d think him a madman. Part of her was convinced that he was just humoring her with these stories, but she entertained them all the same.

Sansa stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. She was in the midst of trying to goad him into talking more about his wildling sweetheart, when a voice sounded from across the clearing. 

“Writing me a love letter?” There was a flirtatious edge to Theon’s voice, as usual. He was heading toward her, clad in a moss-green cloak and brown riding trousers. He approached her confidently, plopping down on the ground in that graceless way he always did. He scooted a little, his eyes raking over her figure suggestively in a way that he reserved just for her. “Hand it over, dearheart.” 

Gods, why did she think his idiocy was so endearing?

She deposited her quill to her side to give him her iciest glare. “Hush. It’s for Jon, not you.”

”Jon Snow gets a love letter from you before I do?” Theon piped up with mock fury before he set his shoulders back and winked. “I’d prefer a filthy one anyways. One that describes all the ways you’ll have me sup on your-” 

“You won’t get either if you don’t leave me be,” Sansa deadpanned, her voice a touch flustered at what he was implying. He wasn't deterred, only smiling wider and leaning into her. “You’re very annoying,” she added in a half-hearted attempt to discourage him from disturbing her. They hadn’t had a chance to speak about their betrothal, not when it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

He seemed pleased, though. Lighter.

Traces of bruising danced around his face, light smatterings of green and blue framing his bright eyes and the corner of his lips. She suspected Robb had been the one to gift him with those, although Theon refused to say who gave it to him for certain. 

When Theon leaned over to press a feather-light kiss against her mouth, her stomach swooped and her heart sang. No matter her mother’s warnings, she felt tethered to him in a way she couldn't quite understand. Life wasn’t a song, she’d come to accept, but it could be sweet all the same.

”The Lord of the Iron Islands,” Sansa tested out, her breath mingling with his when she pulled back the slightest bit. She felt him shudder, and not from the intimacy of the moment. “Are you scared?”

Theon pulled back a tad, looking anywhere but into her eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

”Father was fostered at the Eyrie for most of his childhood,” Sansa started, “he was the second son, never expected to ascend to be the Lord of Winterfell. The North still embraced him when he returned home.”

He’d probably heard the story more than she had but she willed him to just believe her and trust in himself, no matter how much he believed he was unworthy.

He looked like he might cry. 

“Iron Islanders are... it’s different there than it is in Winterfell, Sansa.” Theon croaked. “They’re not like Northerners. They’re hard and cruel and-“

”But you’re not,” she grasped at his hands sweetly, catching the way Theon winced at her words. “You’re good and kind and just. They would be lucky to be ruled by you, Theon. By us, together.”

A thousand words passed between them as they looked upon each other.

Theon looked thoroughly lost, anchored to her by rope so thin that it could snap at any moment.  

He hesitated, reluctant to burden her with his insecurities. “What if they don’t want me?”

She abandoned her letter to envelop Theon in a hug tight enough to convey how much she cared for him. He squeezed his eyes shut, tightening his arms around her in kind. For so long, he’d wanted this. A lordship, a wife, a home to return to... Now it was just within his grasp and he was terrified.

What if he failed? What if he died? What if Sansa changed her mind about him? What if Robb found someone better to marry her to?

“They will,” she murmured into his shoulder. It all seemed so simple the way she said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He almost believed her. 

* * *

"Who comes before the Old Gods on this night?” Lord Karstark called out, holding a torch above his head as he stared out at the audience. His initial reluctance to take part in the wedding warred with his pride at being given the honor of performing the ceremony over Robb's other bannermen. Though he gritted his teeth as Theon took his place beside him, he stood his ground all the same.

Her gown was ivory, the fabric thicker than she imagined it would be. Samite, her mother had explained to her when the dress had first been commissioned. There was no Myrish lace nor were there the extravagant trimmings, but it was beautiful all the same, a smattering of pearls splayed along the bodice. 

Robb’s voice came from Sansa’s side, his arm linked with hers as they stopped in front of the heart tree. “Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods.” He glanced over at Theon, who was standing adjacent to the tree. His black velvet finery glittered under the moonlight, the gold trimmings of his doublet catching the eye. Robb continued as rehearsed. “Who comes to claim her?”

”Theon of House Greyjoy. Rightful Lord of the Iron Islands and Heir to the Seastone Chair.” His eyes gleamed under the light of the lantern hanging above him, looking at Sansa as if he’d never seen a woman in his life. He almost forgot to continue speaking when her brow raised expectantly. “Who gives her?”

”Robb of House Stark, the King in the North, the King of the Trident, and Lord of Winterfell.”

Her brother squeezed her arm with his hand before releasing it. She chanced one last glance at him before looking ahead at her future.

Sansa took a step forward, her slippers padding through the wet dirt as she approached her intended. For so long, she thought marriage was something to dread, a gilded cage for her to rot in. In another life, this would have been corrupted by Joffrey, Cersei, and the Sept where her Father had been executed.

Now, she was in the godswood beside a man she’d grown up with, pledging herself to him forever.

”Princess Sansa, do you take this man?”

 _One flesh, one heart, one soul_.

The words were not said, but Sansa heard them all the same. They were whispers from the leaves of the tree, rustling through the crown of braids upon her head.

 _Now and forever_.

”I take this man.”

There was no weirwood face carved onto the heart tree nor were their snowflakes on the ground. No Bran or Rickon or Father watching on with smiles lighting their faces. The ground beneath them was damp from the merciless rain of the Riverlands and barely any of the stars in the sky were visible.

The crackling of the fire danced with the soft aroma of the flowers in the godswood. It reminded Sansa of another time, when she danced through this very garden without a care in the world, her dress caked with dirt and her lips swollen with stolen kisses.

This was not the wedding she’d pictured for herself, but she would rather have one like this with Theon than a thousand lavish ceremonies with anyone else.

"Kneel," came Lord Karstark's voice, barely registering in Sansa's head as Theon's cold hand found her own. Their fingers twined together as the pair knelt before the heart tree, their knees meeting the muddy ground with a soft thump. They bowed their heads, and Sansa's eyes slid shut. This was happening.

She heard Theon stand beside her after a few moments, his confidence only betrayed by the way he shook when he removed the Stark maiden's cloak from her shoulders, handing it off to Robb before cloaking her with another one.

She turned to her side and looked up at him as the velvety fabric settled around her, recalling that it was Theon's favorite- he'd said so himself when he gifted the material to her. She didn't have the resources to have a bride's cloak made for her, instead sewing a Kraken into his used one with the help of her mother. 

His gaze met hers and she saw a collage of their past selves in his eyes.

The somber child with a bashful smile who avoided her for his entire first year at Winterfell, the sting of her rejected hug burning every time she watched him play with his stupid wooden swords in the courtyard. She would throw the largest tantrums when Robb would abandon their snow castles to spar with Theon, sulking for hours when she was forced to resume her project with stupid, clumsy Arya instead.

He was the boy of twelve who abandoned his games with Robb and Jon to check on her when she tripped over her new dress -a gift for her eighth nameday- and tumbled onto the ground outside the stables. He laughed heartily when he realized she wasn’t hurt, but she didn’t forget the momentary concern swimming in his eyes or the gentle way he checked her wrist for any scrapes. Theon was the only boy she knew who wasn’t her brother and so she fancied herself in love with him.

The troublemaking thirteen-year-old who broke her heart when he mocked her for asking him to play princes and knights. She’d wept for hours over the insult, unable to bear looking at him for the next two weeks before a new object of her affection stopped at Winterfell on his way to Castle Black. Waymar Royce was kinder than Theon anyway, and older too. That infatuation eventually faded as well.

The flirtatious boy of fifteen who she spotted groping a maid in the kitchens during a quest to find lemon cakes in the dark of the night. Jeyne wanted to get a closer look but Sansa urged them to run back to their rooms, fearing Mother’s wrath if she found out about what they’d seen.

The angry youth of seven-and-ten, too deep in his cups to dance with her at feasts anymore no matter how she begged. She didn’t have time for his moodiness, not when Prince Joffrey would be visiting Winterfell soon and she _needed_ to brush up on her dancing to impress him. Theon rolled his eyes when she pleaded with him to help her, brushing her off as soon as she said Joffrey's name. Robb offered to dance with her instead, but it wasn’t the same.

The determined knight of twenty who saved her from King’s Landing with nothing but his knife and a rowboat at his disposal; he was her savior, a surprisingly understanding man with a gentle heart who sat patiently with her as she recounted her traumas and fears. She fell in love with him over loaves of stale bread and rancid ale, dreaming about their future together as they rode through the Riverlands on Maegor's back.

The vulnerable man who kissed her in this garden a year later, and looked at her like she was the most beautiful girl in the world. The one who understood her better than anyone.  She loved every single version of Theon, no matter his faults and misgivings.

His hands came around her, scooping her off of the ground and into his arms to carry away to the feast.

* * *

"More!" Shouting and laughter followed. "Come now, wolf pup!" Lord Manderly roared, "keep going! Show us how honorable, old Eddard raised you!" 

Robb raised the leather wineskin to his lips, wincing as wine poured down his throat and dripped down his mouth. The red of the drink stained his neck and shirt while he chugged the drink provided to him, encouraged to act a fool by all of the onlookers.

He blinked back tears as the lords around him cheered him on, raising a hand in the air as he tipped the entire drink back.

He finished it with a brandish, slamming it onto the table victoriously as Greatjon patted him on the shoulders, raving about his drinking prowess. Robb planted a messy kiss onto the side of Roslin's head, dousing her braids with the remaining wine on his mouth.

Catelyn watched on from across the table, looking properly mortified as her son stumbled out of his seat. Arya was sitting between her and Roose Bolton, pouting sullenly when her Mother informed her that she wouldn't be able to have more than two glasses of wine at the wedding feast.

"My lords!" He called out, his voice hoarse from all of the screaming he'd been doing. His wife watched on, shaking with laughter as he steadied himself with her chair. "We've come here tonight," he slurred, "to celebrate the wed-wedding of my sister Sansa and my closest friend in the entire bloody world, Theon Greyjoy!"

"Hear, hear!" Lord Cerwyn called, also drunk out of his mind. Lords cheered, all seeming to forget about their objections to the marriage now that they were provided with copious alcohol. Roslin raised her own glass of wine politely, smiling over at Robb dutifully as if he wasn't being a bumbling idiot.

Rymund the Rhymer was crooning 'Let Me Drink Your Beauty' at Sansa, who was covering her reddened face with both hands at the lewd lyrics being sung at her.

Both of Theon's arms encased her in a hug, a huge grin stretching across his lips as he whispered into her ear. Catelyn shook her head at the sight, unable to stop a fond smile from flitting across her face. For all that she'd opposed this match, it was a relief to see her daughter smiling and laughing again, however in her cups Sansa may be.

She ached for Ned more than ever, wishing he could be here to see this. Their babes were grown, two of them married and the other three on their way to becoming fine men and women. Before long she'd be an old woman, holding grandchildren in her arms as better times dawned upon her family.

"The King in the North!" Lord Umber shouted, throwing his drink up without a care. When it sloshed all over the dish in front of him, he blinked with confusion. Lord Edmure was practically keeled over with laughter at the sight, his own drink pouring onto the floor.

Robb continued, just then remembering that he was making a speech. "May all your years contain-contain the sweetest of times and the best of moments!" Men echoed their cheers in agreement as Theon released Sansa to raise a glass to Robb. "Wait, I'm not done. May your halls be filled with babes," Lyman Darry hooted as he poured himself more ale, "-and laughter! To Theon and Sansa!" Robb's broad smile only increased in size when everyone drank to his toast.

"To Theon and Sansa!" The voices chorused and before the music could resume, men were shouting their requests at the raucous bard.

"Oi! Bard! Play The Dornishman's Wife!" Lord Blackwood called out, laughing as Lord Mallister shouted his disagreement with the pick. 

"Greyjoy's not a bloody Dornishman, you knob." One of the better-liked Freys interrupted. "Do Seasons of My Love!" 

"We're celebrating, Stevron," Smalljon clapped the man on the back. "None of that sad shit, now- I want to hear The Lusty Lad! Sing it for us, boy!"

The considerably confused bard followed through on the last request, belting out a song that had several Northerners singing along, all of whom seemed like different men under the influence of so much ale and wine. The Blackfish excused himself once he'd had enough of the noise.

"Shall we slip away, wife?" Theon whispered into Sansa's ear, his hand rubbing at her thigh. She shot him a scandalized look to which he nipped at her earlobe, uncaring that they were surrounded by people. "No one's watching and I want you." He squeezed her leg, his hand roving higher up as he nudged his nose against her cheek. He was bolder than usual and grabbier as well, but Sansa found that she didn't mind it. She was _married_ and drunk and nothing could make her happier.

She giggled at the sensation and glanced around her. When his statement proved true, she grabbed his hand and tugged him out of his seat.

Theon followed after her enthusiastically, not sparing another look at the guests behind them.

Soon enough, they had escaped unnoticed and were fumbling outside of the chambers that had been prepared for them, falling into one other amidst laughter. When they finally managed to work the complicated -or so it seemed- latch of the door, they disappeared for the remainder of the night, too consumed with each other to pay anyone else much mind anymore.

Another half hour passed in the Great Hall of Riverrun, food and drink littering the floor as the men sang along bawdily to The Bear and the Maiden Fair. Catelyn accompanied Arya to her chamber once she began yawning, leaving only Robb's bannermen in the hall, all jovial despite the late hour.

"Where'd they go?" Lord Edmure asked dumbfounded at the absence of the new couple whose empty seats stuck out like a sore thumb.

Lord Karstark was the first to guffaw with laughter. "Greyjoy couldn't wait to take his prize, it seems! See the fiend you've given your sister to, Robb?" 

His soldiers all laughed at the jape, but Robb only turned to his wife who was patiently looking back up at him. Some of his drunkenness had worn off with time, though he didn't recall ever seeing someone as beautiful as Roslin. How long had it been since he'd seen another woman? Or even looked at one?

 _Talisa,_ his mind screamed at him. No, no, no. He couldn't think about that. He didn't want to think about that. 

"Sweet wife," he breathed out as he held a hand out to her. She took it daintily, smiling at him winningly as if she had been waiting for the entire night to receive his affections. He pulled her close to him and rested his forehead against hers. His hands roamed her waist. "Gods, you're beautiful. I've told you that, right?"

Roslin blushed prettily, averting her gaze in that timid way she always did. "You've mentioned it a few times, Your Grace."

Robb groaned, dipping forward to kiss her in an unprecedented act. He never kissed her in front of his men, least of all outside of their shared chambers. He wanted more from her- he wanted _fire_ , not false courtesies. "For the last time, _please_ call me Robb. Your Grace sounds so... formal."

Her eyelashes fluttered as she chased his lips with her own, emboldened by his own display of affection. "Would you like to retire then, Robb?"

Something new lit up in his eyes then, and he pulled her closer to him. "I'd like nothing more."

* * *

“I love you,” Theon whispered into her hair, breathing Sansa in for the last time. He closed his eyes, trying to prolong the moment as long as he could.

The four days they'd spent together as husband and wife weren't nearly long enough, not now that he'd be leaving her behind to take back a home he hadn't seen in over a decade.

He felt soft lips press against his neck and then his jaw, out of the view of anyone peering in on their moment. Sansa breathed the words back to him and looked like she wanted nothing more than to drag him back into the safety of the castle.

When would they see each other next? Days from now? Months? Years?

Theon felt her stuff something into his left hand but didn’t dare look, not when she was right _there_ andlooking at him like that.

He didn’t want to forget anything about her- not her smell or her smile or her eyes. Her laughter either, whether it cut like a knife or rang like wind chimes.

"Come back to me," she pleaded, her hands now clasped behind his neck. He nodded wildly, inhaling sharply when she tilted her head to kiss him sweetly. They hadn't been apart since Sansa rode to the Twins and now, there was a sizable chance that he wouldn't return. Robb would kill him if he left Sansa widowed.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Robb kneeling on the ground in front of his wife, rubbing at her swollen stomach with his gloved hands. The Blackfish was off to the side, giving little Arya some advice as she toyed with the thin sword at her side, much to Catelyn's disapproval. 

"Where's Maegor?" Sansa smiled through her tears and Theon couldn't help but wonder what he'd done to deserve her. She was watching the black horse behind him, the one he'd named Smiler when he'd been away at Harrenhal. This was a proper warhorse, not like the horse who'd carried them through the Riverlands.

He chuckled, his fingers running alongside her cheek softly. "He'd never survive in wartime. Too gentle for that stuff. I'm afraid he'd like it better here, with you to brush his hair every day and every night. You have to take care of him while I'm away. He's a rough one, so be patient. He likes-"

"Brown sugar," Sansa finished. "I remember."

"Of course you do," Theon beamed at his wife, tugging her back to him for one last kiss. They remained attached to one another for longer than appropriate, only coming up for air when the sound of a horn blew. Gods, he hated horns. They were so loud and intrusive. 

Then Sansa was stepping aside and Robb stood in her place, lines etched across his forehead despite the tilted grin on his face. “Don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

He barely had time to think of a retort before Robb dragged him into a hug of his own. He returned it fiercely, wishing more than ever that they could ride by each other’s side instead of going their separate ways. He recalled how they'd fought in tandem at the Battle of the Whispering Wood; he'd never be able to forget it. He'd never felt anything like that before, with blood splattered on his face and a stolen Lannister dirk in his sheath. 

Theon swallowed, trying to put on a brave face for their goodbye. “And leave your sister with an empty bed? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Robb grimaced and Theon stifled his own laughter at the sight, seeing the fury war with fondness on his friend’s expression. ”Careful now, Greyjoy.”

”I always am,” Theon smirked as he mounted his horse at last. They needed to leave before daybreak, especially if they meant to take the islands by surprise. 

"Off with you then," Robb patted Smiler's rear to indicate to the horse that he should leave. "I'll see you soon, brother."

Theon could only jerk his chin once in acknowledgment of the term, mistrusting his ability not to cry at the sight of Sansa and Robb standing together, calling him husband and brother respectively. Would Ned Stark be proud of him? Would he call him 'my son' in that grave voice of his?

Nodding at the Blackfish once the eighty men gathered in front of him were ready to depart, Theon galloped away from Riverrun toward Seagard. The men at his side were a comfort, the feeling so different from when Robb had first sent him to Pyke as an envoy for peace.

If he'd actually gone, would his path have been much different? The question gnawed at him as he grappled with the reality that he would have to kill his own father- a father that might have otherwise welcomed him home as his last trueborn son and heir. 

Lord Piper was riding at his side, and the Hound was trailing behind them. The rest were all an array of soldiers, most of them Northern. A few Bolton bannermen here and there. An impressive group of men, Theon thought to himself smugly, wondering if the sight of them would scare some sense into his father.

The Pipers were distant kin of the Greyjoys, so his presence would surely have some weight with the ironborn. Or it wouldn't and they'd just take the piss at them for being mainlanders. Either way, it was good to have some company.

He released the reins to look down at the square of cloth that Sansa had placed into his hand earlier. It was a simple piece of black fabric. A direwolf was stitched onto it with a shimmering gold-colored string instead of the usual grey he'd grown used to seeing on Robb's banners. He couldn’t look away from it, almost falling off his damn horse as he stared at the gift.

Greyjoy and Stark.

When he tucked the favor against his breast, he drew in a deep breath. He could do this. 

* * *

"Watch over her, Sansa. No matter what it takes, protect her. Be with her when the time comes for-"

"Robb." Sansa interrupted, taking his hand with her own. "I know. You don't have to tell me. I'll make sure she's taken care of."

Robb spared another glance at his wife, her stomach just now beginning to show that she was round with child. Three moons along, Mother had assured them when he'd fretted over her while they were breaking their fast that morning. "Sansa, if I don't come back-"

"Don't be stupid," Sansa interrupted him rudely, crushing his fingers with a strength she didn't know she had. "You're going to come back."

Robb looked at her with those overly-analytical eyes of his before they warmed and crinkled at the edges. He pulled her into an embrace with a lighthearted laugh. "Keep Arya out of trouble too, will you? Mother's heart won't be able to take it if she keeps going like she is."

Sansa rolled her eyes and then Robb moved on, saying his parting words to his mother and wife before he left, taking the bulk of his army west for the siege on Casterly Rock. The thought made her nervous. No one had ever taken the Rock before- the Lannisters always said so.  _Let him take Casterly Rock_ , she pleaded to whatever gods were listening to her. _Let him defeat them. Let him bring me Joffrey's head so I can be free._  

"What'd he say about me?" Arya tugged at Sansa's sleeve, pulling Sansa out of her daydreams.

"That you're a grubby little idiot," Sansa returned, her lips curving into a smile as Arya kicked at Sansa's shin. 

"Stop lying," her little sister whined as Robb rode off on his white horse, every inch the warrior she'd pictured him being. Grey Wind skulked at his side, bounding off with a speed she didn't think was possible from a wolf.

And then they were gone, Robb and Theon both, the two of them riding off in different directions while she was stuck in Riverrun with her family.

"He said he cares very much about you, Arya." Roslin chipped in kindly, her long brown tresses falling like waves over her pale blue gown. "He wants you to keep practicing with that sword of yours, so you can ride into battle with him someday. You'll be Ser Arya soon enough if Robb has anything to say about it."

Arya shot Sansa a smug look to which she exchanged a smile with Roslin. Her mother's smile was radiant as Sansa pulled Arya close to her side, hugging her despite the odd look her sister gave her. She accepted the hug but didn't return it, mumbling something about how marriage made Sansa even stranger.

* * *

"I'm not going!" Arya bellowed, smashing a vase against the wall of Lady Catelyn's chambers. "You can't make me!"

Roslin glanced at Sansa worriedly over the yellow bonnet she was stitching for her babe, Sansa merely sighing at her sister's antics. "She does this all the time." 

Roslin was a jumpy girl, she noticed. Always fidgeting with her hands. She was a frightened thing and so eager to please. It reminded Sansa of- _little dove_ , a malicious voice in Sansa's voice sneered. She shook it off like she always did, but her mood had already dipped considerably.

"Arya Stark! Listen to me right now," Catelyn's voice thundered through the closed door. Sansa was sewing the actual outfit for Roslin's babe, her expertise at the skill far outweighing her goodsister's basic knowledge of it. "You will come back to Winterfell and you will stop this at once!"

"No!" Arya screamed back at her mother, another thump sounding as the girl threw something else onto the ground. Probably her bags. "I can't leave! My list-"

"Arya, get this nonsense out of your head and stop telling tales about-"

"They're not tales!" Arya insisted. "I've killed before! Five people! I'm not a little girl anymore, Mother. My friends are here. I need to find Gendry. I can't go back to Winterfell." Grasping onto the few straws she had left, she complained. "You're not making Sansa go back!"

"Sansa is a woman grown," Catelyn reasoned, her temper flaring though she was making an attempt to keep her tone mellow. "She has a husband and a new home to return to, and she's going to watch over the castle while-"

"I can help watch over the castle too!" Arya cried, to which Catelyn tutted once. 

"Roslin will be here to help-"

Arya let out a frustrated scream, throwing her mother's chamber door open before storming into the solar where Roslin and Sansa were sitting. Sansa calmly looked up at her fiery sister while Roslin simply stared, shocked into silence. "Tell her, Sansa! Tell her I can stay here."

Catelyn gave Sansa a confounded look as if she expected her daughter to side with her without question. Sansa looked between the two Starks, knowing her decision was made from the moment Arya began pleading her case almost ten minutes earlier.

"Mother," Sansa started carefully. "I think it would be worthwhile for Arya to stay here with me."

Catelyn's shoulders sagged and she rubbed a thumb into her forehead, the disappointment radiating off of her. "Sansa, I cannot abide by this."

"I have a proposal for you," Sansa's voice was quiet and calm, trying her best to act the mediator in the situation as Catelyn looked at her with speculative eyes. "I think that you should return home with Roslin. She'll have Robb's child soon, his heir. It won't be safe for her anywhere other than Winterfell, you know that. Robb has so many enemies. They'll know before long that she's with child, and Winterfell _will_ be her castle to rule someday. You said it yourself- Bran and Rickon need to meet their goodsister. I think it would do her good to birth the babe in Winterfell. It'll be a true Northern babe, born among family."

Roslin laid down the bonnet, her eyes wide as if she hadn't expected to be used as a pawn in this argument. 

"Well..." Catelyn started, unsure of how to proceed now that Arya was looking at her with imploring eyes. 

"Arya can stay with me. I'll make sure she attends all her lessons and learns how to be a proper lady, you know I will. That way, we won't have to make any switches from Septa Betha who Arya _loves_ already. And she can spend her time here. If she's to marry Elmar Frey, it would do her some good to learn more about the country. I can make sure she gets the education she needs, Mother."

Arya looked at her with accusing eyes, her face contorted into one of rage. "Elmar Frey?! I don't want to marry Elmar Frey! Or any Frey, for that matter!"

"Hush, Arya." Sansa glared at her sister, turning back to her mother who was glancing between the three girls in the room, all her daughters by law or blood.

Roslin didn't seem offended by Arya's insult, but she merely shrugged at the suggestion of traveling to Winterfell. "I have always wanted to see Winterfell, Lady Stark," she added helpfully, ever gracious. "I suppose it would do me better to see it now than when this little one is born."

"I... suppose it isn't the worst idea," Catelyn conceded, still reluctant to go home without three of her five children. "Arya, think about this. You'll be so much safer in Winterfell. Don't you want to see Bran again? Or Rickon? He's grown so much since you last saw him, sweetling."

Arya's anger hadn't simmered the slightest bit, but she didn't throw anything this time. "I want to stay here." 

Catelyn eyed her daughters, looking every bit as exhausted with them as Father had the last time they'd gotten to sup with him at King's Landing. "Fine. But you must promise me that you'll return home someday. Please, Arya. It would break my heart to lose you again."

"I will, Mother, I promise," Arya mumbled, looking down at her feet with shame. "Once I'm finished here, I'll come back."

Catelyn nodded, biting her lip as she adjusted her skirts. "We should make travel arrangements then. Roslin, do you have all of your things packed?"

Robb's wife perked up and stood from her seat, excusing herself so that she could ready her things.

Catelyn spent the night with her daughters, thanking the gods that they were safe and together no matter all the trouble they had caused for her lately.

By the time sunrise came, she'd sent out several ravens prior to her departure- one for her uncle, one for her son, and one for Maester Luwin announcing that she would be returning home. Taking a last look at her childhood home, Catelyn sniffed, voicing aloud that she might never return here again.

She bid her daughters farewell with drawn-out hugs and kisses at the crowns of their heads. "I'll write to you as soon as I return," she swore to Sansa, clutching at her daughters' hands as if they were lifelines. She responded in kind, asking that Mother tell Bran and Rickon that she thought about them every day.

The pair of them took turns embracing their mother before Catelyn and Roslin retreated into their carriage.

When they were out of sight, Arya spun to face Sansa, the argument from the previous day not forgotten.

"I'd rather die than be a proper lady like you," she announced with malice and desperation radiating from her. "I'll run away, leave, anything I can do. I'll hang myself before I marry Elmar Frey. I will, Sansa! You can't make me do it."

Sansa made an annoyed sound and spun around, walking back to the castle in the commanding way that their mother always did. She ignored Arya's inquisitive frown, smiling kindly at the Tully soldiers lining the bridge leading to the castle. "Don't be stupid, Arya. You're not marrying Elmar Frey."

"What?" Arya stopped. "But Mother said-"

"I don't care what Mother said," Sansa cut in, her eyes sharp as she scanned the clouds in the sky. "It's going to rain soon. We should get inside before we get wet." 

"What are you saying, Sansa?" She had to know, hope threatening to course through her at the thought of being free from her unwanted engagement.

Sansa glanced around for any intruding ears, leaning closer to Arya than she usually would. She sounded bored but even Arya could hear the care in her voice. "I have better things to do than enforce rules on you, Arya. If you choose to attend your lessons, then that's what you'll do. If you pester the Kingslayer in his cage, so be it. If you convince the master-at-arms to teach you how to use that sword of yours, I won't stop you. And as for Elmar Frey... you're too young for it anyway."

"I've already flowered, Sansa." Arya's voice was quiet and afraid, to which Sansa threw her a surprised glance. Arya was older than most girls were when they flowered but... for some reason, Sansa always thought it would never happen to her sister. "Mother doesn't know." 

"Then we insist on waiting longer. Once the war is over, you'll be back in Winterfell and we'll break the pact off. Robb will do this for you, I know he will."

"Just like that?" Arya asked, incredulous. She didn't know much about betrothals but she did know they couldn't be ended _that_ quickly.

"Let me worry about that," Sansa responded evasively. "Now... what was that list you were speaking about earlier?"

Just as she foretold, light sprinkles of rain came down upon them. Sansa sighed, ushering her sister forward so that they could escape before it ruined their dresses. They were halfway across the bridge when Arya spoke up, sounding concerned that she'd receive a similar response to the one their mother gave her.

"Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Meryn Trant."

Sansa blinked at her sister, not faltering once in her steps. "And you plan on killing all of them?"

Arya smiled once and then it was gone. "They're the ones who're left."

They passed through the doorway of the castle, the gate closing behind them as soon as they entered. She made for the new chambers she shared with Theon, barely used given how recent their wedding was. Arya followed her without question.

"And you've killed before?" Sansa asked, her voice monotone as they rounded a corner. She opened her chamber door, allowing Arya to go inside before she did. 

It smelled like flowers in Sansa's room, because of course it did. It was all very pretty, covered from top to bottom with Theon's house colors. As soon as the door closed behind them, Sansa walked toward her dresser and began unknotting her lefthand braid.

"Yes. Does that scare you?"

"I suppose it does," Sansa hummed back, beginning to fuss with the other side of her hair as Arya surveyed the room, standing awkwardly in fear of being yelled at for sitting somewhere she wasn't supposed to. "What did Meryn Trant ever do to you?"

Anger flared within Arya at the question, supposing that Sansa thought knights of the Kingsguard were too honorable to do wrong. "He killed Syrio."

"Your dancing teacher?" Sansa turned in her seat then, outwardly surprised for the first time this entire conversation. Arya didn't answer and so Sansa reached for her brush, beginning to glide it through her long hair. "Meryn Trant used to beat me," she remarked casually. 

" _What_?" Arya asked, wondering if Sansa was playing some ridiculously unfunny jape on her. "He  _beat_ you?"

Sansa merely verbalized her confirmation with another 'mhm', meeting Arya's eyes through her looking glass. "Most of them did. Ser Meryn, Ser Arys, Ser Preston, Ser Boros," she stopped to laugh, the sound of it horrible to Arya's ears with the context of the conversation in mind. "He was the worst of them. Always very eager to get right to the beatings. Ser Mandon as well. He was supposed to guard me the day of the riot. He did a poor job of it, though I suppose it was for the best. If he'd done his job properly, Theon might not have been able to save me when he did."

"Why did they beat you? Joffrey just... let them?" Arya's eyes narrowed at the look on Sansa's face, like she was in a world of her own. It was shocking to picture, Sansa's precious prince letting such a thing happen for his amusement. Was that why he'd killed Father in the first place? Sansa gestured for Arya to sit wherever she wanted, to which she sat on the edge of her sister's made-up bed.

"Joffrey ordered it," Sansa corrected and set her brush down. "He liked seeing me cry. He once pointed a crossbow at me and had them strip me in front of the entire court. He made me look at Father's head when he took it. That was really just the start of it."

She wondered how Margaery Tyrell fared as Joffrey's wife, not wishing any ill on the Queen that had taken Sansa's place after her disappearance from the capital. She'd been infatuated with her younger brother, Ser Loras, back when she was a child. If only Lord Renly hadn't died, perhaps she and Queen Margaery would have been friends. 

"I'll add them to my list," Arya offered, feeling protectiveness surge through her at the idea of them hurting her sister. She'd always thought Sansa was safe in the capital, living in the laps of luxury while Arya scrounged through the streets for scraps of food and pity. They'd been through similar things, it seemed. Sansa in the Throne Room and Arya at Harrenhal. "The whole lot of them."

"You're going to kill Joffrey's entire Kingsguard?" Sansa asked, amusement dancing on her face as she turned to face her sister.

"I'll kill the entire guard myself," Arya confirmed, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

"Very well then," Sansa's lips stretched into another smile, this one more ghostly than the last. "Keep Ser Arys off it though. He was always one of the kinder ones."

"He beat you," Arya repeated dubiously. "How could he be kind if he beat you?"

"He didn't want to. The others liked it. He always made conversation with me, even tried to refuse once. Everyone was Joffrey's plaything in the capital," Sansa's eyes darkened. "He liked causing pain. I think it's the only thing he ever really liked to do. I tried to push him off a bridge once."

This time, Arya barked a laugh. That would have saved them a lot of trouble. "Why didn't you?"

"The Hound stopped me."

"He ruins everything," Arya grumbled.

"He's not so bad," Sansa protested. "He did bring you home."

She had nothing to say to that, instead piping up after a few moments. "I'm glad you made it here," Arya claimed awkwardly. 

"Me as well. I was very worried about you," Sansa offered her sister a rare grin. "I had Theon ask everyone in Maidenpool if they'd seen you."

"I'm good at hiding," Arya returned the smile in full. "I'm glad you didn't find me. I'd have been sick to my stomach, watching you make eyes at each other."

The two girls laughed then, feeling a little closer now than they had before. When Arya spoke about her friends that she'd made on the road, Sansa snickered once and asked her what her one friend was named. "Hot Pie," she explained as if Sansa was an idiot. "He's a cook. He left us to stay at the Inn of the Kneeling Man."

Sansa paused then. "He cooked there?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Arya scoffed as she reclined back on Sansa's bed. “Gods, and you call me the stupid one.”

"We stopped there, right before Riverrun. Theon got me a cake from the kitchens. It had powder on it and berries in the middle. It was one of the best things I’ve eaten in my life."

It wasn’t even a lemon cake and she’d devoured the pastry like a woman starved. She recalled how it crumbled in her mouth, tasting divine after weeks of eating hardened bread and tasteless gruel. 

Arya smiles for true now, shaking her head fondly at her sister’s priorities. "That sounds like Hot Pie. Desserts were always his favorite." 

Sansa had a mischievous glint in her eyes now as she strode toward the desk in her room, reaching for the parchment immediately. "Then we'll have to summon him here to make something for us. I won't have anything but the best cakes in the Riverlands, and that was the best I've ever had."

"Really?" Arya asked, touched by how... _nice_ Sansa had been to her since their mother's departure just moments ago.

Had she been this nice when Arya first returned to Riverrun? She was still on-guard, wondering if her sister had been replaced with an imposter. It couldn't be Theon's influence, Arya knew. She'd been around him enough times in the past few weeks to know he was the same shithead he'd always been in Winterfell; Arya honestly had no idea how her sister could stand him half the time. 

"Yes, really." Sansa sounded irritated now, though Arya knew it was just an act. "Now go. I have a letter to write and you're being awfully annoying." 

* * *

"You heard the man," Theon blustered, making himself seem larger with a puff of his chest. "Your best one."

The Blackfish glowered at him briefly in a sidelong glance before nodding at the hesitant sailor manning the docks. "We're here for Robb Stark, man. Come to drive the ironborn from their homes and take the islands in his name. They've been giving you trouble for years."

The man studied them cautiously, his long hair falling into his eyes. "Here for Robb Stark? With a kraken on your armor? I'm not a learned man, but I'm no fool."

The Blackfish sighed. "Aye, he's got the kraken and I've got the scales. I'm uncle to your liege lord, boy. Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. Your lord's on the King's campaign alongside my nephew. Don't keep us waiting. I've got enough coin for it and good men to feed. Let us cross. Now."

The sailor took a step back, hands raised in the air. "I don't want no trouble, ser. I'll- I'll fetch you your vessel." 

The man tittered away and the Blackfish exhaled. "Join the others in the tavern. I can handle this."

Theon saw the insult for what it was. "I'd like to get a look at my ship first. Go on ahead, rest those old bones of yours."

The only thing worse than a biting retort was no response at all, which was exactly what he got when the Blackfish left him standing there. He felt like a fool. He couldn't do this. How could he rule over the Iron Islands when he couldn't even secure himself a ship without the help of an aged knight?

"Don't just stand there, Greyjoy," came Brynden Tully's voice from a small distance away, near the harbor of ships. When Theon looked up, he could hardly believe his eyes. A longship. He hadn't seen one since he was a child. Though its sails were torn and the beast was aged, it awed him all the same. 

When he locked eyes with his grand-uncle by law, the pair nodded at each other. This would do just fine.

* * *

_I've returned home._

The words stuck out to Sansa as soon as she ripped open the Stark seal of the letter that had just come to her. She scanned the parchment for more news- Bran and Rickon missed her, Rickon's nameday just passed, Roslin was adjusting nicely to the castle, Maester Luwin offered his congratulations, Old Nan was well, she missed Sansa and Arya deeply... 

Nothing about Robb.

Sansa forced herself to calm down. She hadn't heard any word from the Westerlands, not in the past moon or so, nor had she heard word from the Iron Islands.

The worst part of it all was waiting. She heard petitions in lieu of her Uncle Edmure, who was off fighting by Robb's side, though she felt spectacularly unqualified to pass judgment on the internal affairs of the Riverlands.

 _You're as much a Tully as you are a Stark_ , she reminded herself as she tired over the notes from her last session. How she hated crunching numbers. If only Robb were here so he could do this for her. Mathematics was never her strong suit.

"What's that?" Arya asked from the corner of the room, Sansa's hand flying to her heart as she jumped in her place.

"Gods, Arya, don't do that!" Sansa chided her sister, eventually settling back into her seat. "Mother sent a letter. Everyone misses us." 

Handing Arya the letter so she could read it for herself, she went back to drafting a message to Halmon Paege, promising him aid in exchange for men. They'd been communicating for quite some time, Lord Paege's previous hesitations mostly quelled by the news that Lord Frey's daughter was carrying the heir to the North. That family was more difficult to deal with than they were worth. No wonder everyone hated Walder Frey.

"I wonder what Bran looks like now," Arya mused. "He's almost full grown by now. Rickon too. He was only a boy the last time we saw him."

* * *

Balon was waiting for him when Theon arrived at the docks of Lordsport, flanked by unfamiliar faces donning rags and kraken sigils on their armor.

Theon glanced down at his own attire, feeling spectacularly overdressed for the occasion. The Blackfish looked to him as soon as they stepped up the stone stairs, allowing Theon to lead the crew of men ashore. He straightened his back out as he approached the man, surprised they'd left the castle for this. So much for a surprise attack. Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he worried it would be.

Trying not to peer up at Pyke in all its glory, Theon settled his gaze on his father, taking in his whitened hair and wrinkles. In his mind, Balon Greyjoy was taller and stronger, a force to be reckoned with. The man in front of him was just a gaunt old man. An old man standing in the way of Theon's future.

"They told me you were coming but I wouldn't believe it," his father sneered. "My own flesh and blood, turned against me. It's just as I feared. The Starks have made you theirs. You live with wolves, fight alongside them. I hear you've even laid with one, taken her for a _wife_." He spat out the word as if it were an insult.

"I've married Sansa," Theon confirmed, trying not to be shaken by his father's harsh words. He knew this would be like this. He had to keep it together. He glared as the soldiers beside his father snickered at his statement. They judged him, it was clear. "It's true. I've forged an alliance with the North when you couldn't." 

"Married her, eh?" Balon would have laughed if he were capable of such a thing. "You even speak like a mainlander. Dressed up like a whore, with your silks and velvets. Have you no shame, Theon Greyjoy? Come to usurp your father for a land you've never known? Have you ever even paid the iron price?" 

"Aye, I've paid the iron price," Theon raised his voice, stepping forward as he put an end to his father's ravings. "Surrender the islands to me, Father. End this pitiful excuse for a war. The North will crush you before long, Balon. Know when to quit and take the mercy I've come to offer you."

"Oh ho ho ho, Balon, is it?" His father chortled humorlessly, his white hair blowing with the breeze.

"Aye. Considering the last time you waged a war against the North, you gave your last son away and ran back to hiding in your castle." He saw a fire flash within his father's eyes, the dark-haired woman next to Balon straightening as Theon's tone darkened. "What has the iron price bought you, Father? Two dead sons slaughtered by Lannister scum, ridicule across the Seven Kingdoms, and poverty for all?"

"Watch yourself, boy!" Balon roared, taking a few steps forward, his nostrils flaring at his son's defiance. 

"When's the last time you even paid the price for yourself? You call it reaving- I call it cowardice." Theon shouted from across the docks. The men were listening to what he had to say now. "The North is empty. Desolate. There are no crops rich for the picking, no gold to plunder, no glory to be gained. It's a craven's way of making himself feel important. I would not wear a crown, no, not when I haven't earned it for myself."

"I have no son," his father spat on the ground in front of him. "All I see is a spoiled, disrespectful whelp. Run along, Theon Turncloak. There's nothing for you here."

Theon's face grew red and he clenched his fists. "I have always been your son," he ground out. "But you have been no father to me." He turned to address the men watching, knowing their opinions would count more than his father's. "Follow me and I'll restore the ironborn to glory. I will do what my father couldn't."

He pounded at his armor with his free hand, calling more attention to himself as he grew more confident by the second. "Allying with the mainlanders isn't weakness. The Starks are bound to us by blood- my kin as much as yours. They would help us get the revenge that my father never could. Have you forgotten Rodrik and Maron? My brothers, killed by the men I've actually been fighting on the battlefield. This dirk?"

He lifted his prize for all to see. "Stolen from the corpse of a Lannister in the Whispering Wood. I've been avenging our house while my father's been biding his time, raiding small villages to make himself feel good about his tiny cock-"

"Enough!" Balon drew his sword, pointing it at his son as he bared his crooked teeth. "Kill me yourself if you want Pyke."

Theon didn't spare a glance at his men as he drew his own, ignoring the way some of his followers stiffened at the gesture. Kinslaying was a great crime, he knew, but one Robb would pardon him of. He did send him here to do this, after all. "What is dead may never die."

The woman at his father's side stepped forward then, standing in the path of their swords despite the great distance between them. She grasped at her own axe as she stood between them. "Put your swords away. Father," she warned Balon before turning to Theon with a smirk. "Brother. Put it away and prove you're not the hair-brained fool I've always thought you were."

"Asha?" Theon inquired, trying to find something in the woman before him that resembled the sister from his childhood. He withdrew his weapon but didn't put it away completely, feeling the air around him relax the slightest bit. "He has to die, Asha. You know that as well as I do. I didn't come here to chat."

His sister's eyes flashed with something unrecognizable. "Be that as it may, I don't think slaughtering each other on the docks is the best way to go about claiming the Seastone Chair. Come, brother, let's have a chat."

Balon said something to his daughter under his breath, something Theon couldn't discern. Asha's expression didn't waver even when Balon also lowered his sword and glared at his estranged son one last time, slinking back toward the castle with half of his men at his side.

The other half scrutinized Theon where he stood, appraising him as if he were a slab of meat to be bought. Perhaps they wanted to know if his promises were for true. Ironborn respected strength, Theon reminded himself. If they intended to kill him, they'd have done it already.

Eyeing his sister warily, Theon nodded in affirmation. "Aye. Let's chat." 

* * *

"Word from the King!" A messenger boy shouted from beneath Arya's window, waking her up suddenly.

She didn't bother washing up or brushing her hair, jumping straight out of bed before slipping on her breeches and shirt. She raced downstairs, pushing past Sansa who had likely been awake for hours now. When she reached the messenger, she practically tackled him for the letter he held in his hands.

The seal had already been broken, but Arya paid it no mind, holding it all the way up to her face as she read.

"What is it?" Sansa was rushing up to them, holding her skirts up as Arya busied herself with the letter. "Arya, what does it say?" 

When her sister didn't respond, the boy turned to Sansa with an embarrassed smile. "Victory, my Lady. M'not sure about the details, but m'lord told me we slaughtered thousands of lion scum. Lannisport was in flames, by the sound of it." 

"Your Lord?" Sansa inquired, curious as to who had received this news before her. The boy merely looked to her and bowed once, running off before she could press him for information. It was no matter. She glanced at Arya then, noting the less-than-enthusiastic look on her face before the girl handed Sansa the message.

_I've taken Lannisport. Casterly Rock will not fall and Kevan Lannister has not yet yielded._

_If he does not agree to my terms of surrender within a fortnight, it is your duty as the acting Lady of Riverrun to put Martyn and Willem Lannister to the sword._

_Please await my next letter with further instructions._

_With deepest gratitude and love,_

_Robb Stark_

_The King in the North._


	4. so far from all our dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is super fucking long and it took me forever, but I got it out there!
> 
> I appreciate every one of you that's commented! as this fic comes to a close, I just wanna give a shout out to everyone who's been following and supporting this story. you guys are the best!

The Damphair stood on the rocky shores of Pyke, holding a cask of water to his chest as his woolen robes flapped in the wind.

Theon's reputation staked entirely on what he did next. He couldn't give in and run away, not now that Robb's men were watching him in careful anticipation of what he would do now. But he couldn't kill his father without sparking outrage on both sides.

Balon's pride would damn them both.

His choice was written into stone the moment he knelt before the heart tree, bonding himself to the Starks for life. It wasn't that he feared the old gods or their wrath. They weren't his gods, had never been his gods. But she was his and he was hers. No matter how much he craved his father's acceptance, he couldn't betray the Starks now. A small part of him doubted that his father would ever love him, even under the best of circumstances. That thought made him feel a little bit better about what he would have to do. It didn't feel right but it was what had to happen.

He was a son of Pyke and Winterfell. _Turncloak_ , his father's voice taunted him. This was his home though, wasn't it? Shouldn't it feel like a home to him?

 _I have a home with Sansa_ , he reminded himself. _Robb is my brother. Bran, Rickon, Arya too, even Jon. They are my family. Balon doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. It doesn't matter._ He fell to his knees before Aeron, letting his eyes slide shut.  _Asha is my family too._

"Let Theon your servant be born again from the sea, as you were," the Damphair started, his voice wracked with intensity. Saltwater poured over his face, drenching him as the priest continued his prayer, his uncut beard swishing with his robes. "Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel."

"What is dead may never die," Theon called out, his eyes opening slowly no matter how they stung with pain at the impact of the saltwater. 

The Damphair responded in kind. "What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. Stand."

Theon rose, looking once at his uncle before glancing out at the men lining the shores- _his_ shores.

The Blackfish appeared more uneasy than anything, like a fish out of water. Lord Piper stood behind him stiffly, observing the ritual with mild fascination. The Hound lingered behind the entire lot of them, looking like this was the greatest waste of time he'd invested himself in.

The other men merely watched in trepidation, suspicious that he was choosing to be embraced as a Greyjoy, no matter how many times he'd fought at their side. Theon clenched his fists with agitation, wondering what he'd have to do for them to trust him. Die probably.

Asha was watching him from a distance, her expression impassive. 

* * *

"Martyn Lannister. Willem Lannister. In the name of Robb of the House Stark, the King in the North and of the Trident, I, Sansa of the Houses Stark and Greyjoy, acting Lady Paramount of the Trident, sentence you to die." 

She practiced the words enough times that they almost felt natural on her tongue.

Sansa didn’t see the justice in this. She couldn’t, not when they always looked at her with their bright green eyes whenever she’d pass their cells. Would they even understand why this was happening to them?

In the days leading up to their potential executions, Sansa found herself visiting them in the dungeons frequently.

She got to know each boy for their virtues and faults. They were sweet and of an age with her, though they seemed so much younger. She remembered meeting Lord Kevan’s eldest son in the capital, a soft-spoken handsome boy who trailed behind King Robert. Lancel. In the time she spent near their cages, speaking to them and sneaking them warm meals from the kitchens, she reassured herself that she wouldn't have to do this. Lord Kevan loved his children, he did.

No matter how much the Lannisters valued Casterly Rock, she couldn't imagine any of them choosing their family seat over their own flesh and blood. For all their faults, she knew that they loved their family. Even Cersei would burn her own keep to the ground before she let anyone touch that wicked son of hers.

The boys were asleep now, still grubby and chained to the wall, but well-fed at the very least.

This was the fifth time she had visited them in three days. She barely acknowledged their cousin whenever she came here, not wanting to entertain him in any sort of conversation. Martyn and Willem were good, but Jaime Lannister was evil. Anyone who loved Cersei of their own volition was evil.

Her lip curled as she turned to look at him, alone and bored in his cell. He was pretending not to have seen her, though it was impossible that she escaped his notice. His eyes darted up to meet hers challengingly as if this was all a game to him.

“Ser Jaime,” she addressed him politely.

He raised his brows arrogantly, not bothering to offer her a response. The last time she had seen him outside of this cell was in King’s Landing. Before he attacked her father in the streets and started the ripple effect that led to his execution.

 _He didn’t kill my father. Joffrey killed Father. Joffrey killed Lady._  

She held out the red apple she'd stowed away in her pocket, not feeling up to traveling back to the castle quite yet. Sansa had been saving it for Maegor but one look at Jaime told her that he hadn't had a good meal in years. She used her knife to cut it into neat halves before she placed them on the ground in his cell. She didn't trust him enough to give it to him by hand. It would be a little dirty but she couldn't help that. 

"Ah, a feast for kings.” The Kingslayer eyed the treat with amusement. It wasn't comparable to what Sansa usually ate, but it was better than gruel.

“You’re hardly in the position to complain,” Sansa smiled despite herself, wondering how such a charming person could love a wretch like Cersei Lannister.  He was still an attractive man despite his matted hair and unshaven beard, she noticed. He looked less like Joffrey this way. More tolerable.   

The Queen had fooled her once too, though, with blinding smiles and sweet promises that she was stupid enough to believe. The Kingslayer was just as evil as his sister; he'd plunged a sword into his king's back and got children on his own sister. 

_He **made** Joffrey. He attacked my father. He pushed Bran from a window._

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time, Lady Stark?” Jaime Lannister complained as if her presence here was an inconvenience to him. She tried not to hear Cersei in his inflections, to see Joffrey in his eyes. "I make for poor entertainment, I'm afraid."

“It’s Lady Greyjoy now,” Sansa replied flatly, not really caring about what he thought of her. This man had no honor. His opinion meant nothing.

“Lady Greyjoy?” Jaime sounded startled. Sansa faltered, wondering just how much the Kingslayer even knew about what was happening in the War of the Five Kings. His eyes sparkled with amusement though, a mocking edge coming onto his voice. “And here I thought you would be my niece someday. My nephew must miss you dearly. Poor Joffrey, all alone while his runaway bride takes a squid to her bed."

“Getting away from your vile son was the greatest relief I’ve ever known," she snapped at him. "I look forward to seeing his head on a spike.”

”The wolf has teeth,” Jaime chuckled, unfazed by Sansa’s claim about Joffrey's parentage. He didn't bother denying it. He probably heard the word ‘sisterfucker’ enough that this hardly scandalized him. His voice was darker now, more threatening. “Color me shocked. My sister always thought you were a daft little thing. What was it she used to call you? Little pigeon? No, it was something else... Little goose? Little peacock?"

"Little dove," Sansa gritted out, unable to hear any more of this mockery. What did he gain from angering her?

She eyed the attractive rock to her right, imagining for a moment what it would feel like to bludgeon this terrible man to death.

"Yes, that's it. Little dove. She _hated_ you, though I always wondered why. What threat could a thirteen year old girl possibly pose to her?” He paused, taking in the sight of the woman before him, at age nine-and-ten and tied to four kingdoms by blood or marriage. She was thriving, cutting, and powerful rather than the cowed damsel Cersei would have seen her become. “I suppose she wouldn’t have lost any sleep over killing you.”

Sansa’s carefully-crafted mask didn’t crack the slightest bit, not when her anger was exactly what he wanted from her. Little dove, little bird... the names still edged at her nerves, even after all this time.

“Your sister was wrong. I’ve always been a wolf,” she ground out with conviction. “And I will always be a wolf.”

”I thought you were a kraken now?” Jaime teased, trying to get a rise out of Sansa for reasons that eluded her.

Sansa rolled her eyes, turning back to check on the two sleeping boys she’d initially come here for. They were still asleep. There was once a time that she thought every Lannister was evil; that they were just born into this world twisted and _wrong_. Lord Tyrion wasn't evil, though, nor were Tommen or Myrcella. These children were good in spite of their heinous family. She didn't want to have to kill them, even if it was her duty.

”As much as your sister’s ever been a stag,” she retorted breezily, unwilling to let his jokes get under her skin.

“That’s a great love to aspire to. Cersei and Robert. Truly a match made by the gods,” Jaime quipped, tilting his head back against the back wall of his cell.

Sansa glared at the man, loathing him with every fiber of her existence. He thought he was so clever, with his jokes and horrid smile.

"Now why are you here?" He made a clicking sound with his tongue and smirked at her, a smug look from a man who clearly had no regard for his own life. She hated him in that moment, hated him like she hated his sister and son. "Not satisfied with the Greyjoy lad, is that it? You're a bit young for my tastes, but I-"

"Enough." Sansa ground her teeth.

"I could have sworn I had a similar chat with your mother once," he chuckled, satisfied to have upset her so much. "She was a violent woman, Lady Stark was. I liked that about her. I haven't seen her in quite some time, just as I thought we were beginning to get along, too. Has she run off somewhere?"

He was trying to get information from her.

And she almost played right into his trap like she hadn't spent years underneath his sister's thumb. Nothing she said would help him now anyhow; no matter who won this war, he would be put to the sword soon enough.

She took a few steps backward, as if distancing herself would finally grant her some peace. 

"Sleep well, Ser Jaime."

She wasn’t willing to waste any more time here than she already had.

When she stepped outside, she almost screamed into the night, frustrated and lonely beyond measure. She wanted Theon, and Robb, and Mother, and Bran, and Rickon, and Arya, and Jon, and Lady, and Father. When Sansa crawled into the enormous bed in her chambers, she was alone again. 

* * *

His men were giving the establishments in Iron Holt good business, practically flooding the streets and stalls of the usually uncrowded area. They liked this place better than Pyke and the Lordsport both, glad to be rid of the jarring atmosphere Balon Greyjoy cultivated at his castle. The ironborn were overcharging them tenfold what they should have but Theon didn't bother being of assistance; if they were fool enough to spend that much coin on ale, who was he to stop them?

He was sitting with his sister, drinking himself into a stupor as he watched Dagmer Cleftjaw toss daggers into a target. No one seemed to mind it, despite the risk that some drunken fool might wander in the way of his shot and get a knife through the eye.

Things were different here. He almost preferred it to the courtesies he had to abide by anywhere else, even up North. The clothes the ironborn wore here left him wanting but he supposed he couldn't have it all. Would Sansa like it here? Could she learn to love the islands with time, for all of its roughness and ribaldry?

He stirred at the image he'd conjured up for himself of his proper little wife clad in a half-buttoned tunic, dark breeches, and leather boots. He pictured her with a dirk strapped to her thigh, hair flying in the wind like a warrior princess; they would be a storm together, the Lord and Lady of the Isles.

He licked his lips at the image before picturing her in a gown of his house colors, velvet and soft to the touch, one so flimsy he could rip them off her when they were alone. She would wear a coat with a golden direwolf emblazoned on it and furs on the collar.

"What's she look like?" His sister asked with a wry smirk, interrupting Theon's ill-timed fantasies. She twirled Theon's stolen dagger in her hands, watching him as if she knew exactly what he'd been thinking about.

The men that followed him here were still stiff with discomfort despite finally easing enough to actually drink what the ironborn served them. All except for Clegane who continued drinking with zeal, the rough bastard. He was unhappy at being sent here- said as much to Theon when they set off together. He wanted to be in the Westerlands where he'd have a chance in hell at running into his brother. Theon didn't ask why- he only shrugged and told him he'd try to hurry this along.

Theon downed his ale in one go, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. He really didn't want to be on the receiving end of his sister's ridicule, not when he was only two drinks in. He waved the serving girl over for another round. "Who?"

She gave him an unimpressed look.

"Your bride," she drew out the word, her eyes sparkling with mischief. He could almost see the resemblance between this intimidating woman and his long-lost sister. "Is she bonny? Big teats, small teats? Tall, short? Blonde, brown-haired? Have you put a kraken in her belly yet?"

"Why d'you care?" He regarded his sister moodily, narrowing his eyes into slits at each intrusive question. Whose side was she really on? Why was she even entertaining drinks with him over letting the bloodbath on the docks commence as intended? Was she just pulling his leg by meeting him here?

Asha sighed as if she'd never heard a more idiotic question. "Like it or not, your heirs are all we're going to get."

Theon's eye snapped up to meet hers, confused. He had three uncles and a sister- it wasn't like their house was in a precarious position.

As if sensing his line of thought, she explained. "I won't be producing any anytime soon, not when I've still got some reaving days left in me. Victarion's a halfwit who couldn't find his way around a hull, let alone a woman's body. Euron fucked off after all the business with Victarion's wife. Heard he's been running around terrorizing the Essosi since, but his bastards couldn't inherit either. He hasn't bothered giving any of 'em his name anyways," Asha downed her drink and flagged over another. "He's a mad dog and a dangerous one at that. Unstable. Not fit for rule. And Aeron's a bloody priest.”

She had a point there.

”If you died without getting babes on that wolf girl, our cousins would inherit. A fate worse than dying out, if you ask me. Unless you're considering taking a salt wife, which..." Asha swallowed a mouthful of ale, giving him a condescending once-over. "I doubt you will be."

No, he wouldn't be taking a salt wife. Hadn't even considered it, not since he was a cocky boy of eight and ten who wanted to bed anything with breasts. Robb always thought the concept was brutish whenever they spoke of it, and Theon eventually came to feel the same way. One wife would be hard enough to please, especially one like Sansa. He couldn't hurt her like that anyway, not when she was already as disillusioned with love as she was.

"Why don't you want any?" He couldn't help but ask, stuffing his mouth with the bread in front of him.

"You've got a lot of questions. You still haven't answered mine." 

"Hm?"

"Your wife," Asha spoke slowly, already growing bored of this conversation. "Tell me about her."

Theon glanced around him, finding that a few eyes were peering back at him uncertainly, none of them close enough to hear this conversation. He cleared his throat and raised his newly-filled glass back up to his mouth. "She's beautiful. Always was, even when we were children. Red hair, blue eyes. Tall. Looks like a dream. She was almost the Queen once, before all this shit happened. I rescued her from King's Landing, saved her from the bastard prince. We got to know each other after a while. It was a love match."

"And you bedded her then?" Asha asked, a genuine smile curving on her lips for the first time since they'd seen one another. She almost sounded happy for him, though he couldn't get a good read of her. "When you took her from the Lannisters?"

Theon shook his head. "No. Felt like I shouldn't have even wanted her in the first place. She was always so... she's the kind of girl they write songs about. Kind, clever, good. She's the kind of girl men would die for. The kind where you'd do anything just to see a glimpse of her smile.” He tried to look a little less lovestruck when his sister cringed at his turn of phrase. “Ned Stark never would've given her to me, not when I was his prisoner."

"Were you?" She eyed him critically. "His prisoner, that is."

Anger rose up in Theon's chest. It seemed everyone involved in this bloody war thought he was a traitor without him having to say a word about it.

"I lived every day knowing that if Father didn't behave, Lord Stark would put me to the sword. He had a place for me at the high table and raised me alongside his children, but he would have killed me. He wouldn't have thought twice about it." 

Asha was still watching him, her eyes unreadable. "And his son?"

Theon's demeanor shifted defensively. "I love Robb. He’s a brother to me, not a captor."

"You would name him brother?" Asha leaned back in her seat, surprised but not angry. "The father would've killed you, but the son's your _brother_?" 

"He _is_ my brother," Theon averted his gaze, feeling guilt edge away at him. Robb loved him, of that he was sure. Words were wind but he couldn't betray him now, even verbally. "By law and choice. Robb would go to his grave defending me. And Sansa..."

He didn't know how to explain it to his sister, and so he settled on reaching into his breastplate, pulling out the wrinkled favor she'd gifted him with. He showed it to Asha, watching recognition light in her eyes at the sight of the black-and-gold direwolf: the Stark sigil sewn with Greyjoy colors.

"There’s a sight I never thought I’d see," she remarked, her brows still raised as she practically inhaled her drink. “Father would cut his own wrists if he saw that.”

Theon smiled sardonically. "Perhaps we should show it to him then."

Asha chuckled then, looking away as Theon tucked Sansa's gift back into his armor.

"He’s been in power too long," she spoke slowly, too quiet for anyone but him to hear. "He's getting old. Wants to pillage the North while the wolf tangles with the lion. He thinks you're a traitor and a fool. Wanted me to slit your throat when I said I was meeting you."

Theon didn't respond, his heart dropping to his stomach.He clasped his hands in front of him, willing himself not to be bothered by the news. He intended to kill his father; it only made sense that his father would want him killed in return. He gulped back the lump in his throat, willing his sister to keep talking.

"I'm not going to do that," she started roughly. "Father's driving our house into the dirt. We need new leadership. Someone better, stronger. Someone with iron in their veins and salt in their blood."

Theon's eyes brightened, breath stopped in anticipation. Asha believed in him.

Some words came to mind, words from a book that he hadn't read in years. _You may dress an ironman in silks and velvets, teach him to read and write and give him books, instruct him in chivalry and courtesy and the mysteries of the Faith, but when you look into his eyes, the sea will still be there, cold and grey and cruel._

He recalled reading 'The History of the Ironborn' time and time again, the spine of the book cracking with use over the years. It was one of the few times he and Sansa had spoken as children, recalling her at eleven years old, asking him countless questions about the ironborn kings of old. While he normally would have been annoyed at the interruption, he sat her down and told her stories for hours. She'd listened with rapt attention, swept away by tales about pirates and captive princesses -just a little embellished for her sake- before her damned Septa appeared from nowhere and chastised him for having the nerve to be alone with her. After a stern talking to from Lady Stark, he avoided Sansa for weeks, scared shitless of her mother's wrath. 

He was almost completely tapped out of their conversation when Asha spoke again.

"What House Greyjoy needs is me." She finished.

What? 

Theon recoiled, almost knocking his tankard of ale over in the process. "What?"

Asha laughed then, the sound cruel and detached. "Did you expect I'd name you, little brother?" Her eyes were two storms brewing angrily underneath his stare. "I was born to lead our house. Father's all but named me his heir. If I’d been born with a cock, it’d be mine without question. You share our blood, but you don't know what it means to be ironborn. My men would follow me to their deaths, because they believe in me. Yours follow you because Robb Stark told them to."

"Then why did you bring me here?" He demanded, angry at being taken for a fool.

It stung at him enough to watch every man within their vicinity bow for his sister and not him when they entered. The thought of her with a crown upon her head as he stood off to the side hurt him worse than he cared to admit, especially now that he was beginning to enjoy her company. He only had one sister in the world, and she would steal his birthright from him.

"I've wanted this since the time I could pick up an ax," Asha took a large swig of her drink. "I'm the only capable leader we've got. But I'm a woman. They drink with me, aye, they like me. They follow me when I'm their captain, but I'm still just a girl to them. They'll never choose me, little brother, not when four male heirs live. I'll never be their queen, not unless I murder the lot of you in your sleep. They'd name the fucking Damphair before me."

"What are you getting at, Asha?" Theon demanded, tiring of his sister's games. "And don't call me that. I'm a man grown."

"You'll always be my little brother," Asha replied gruffly, pretending not to notice how the palm of Theon’s hand came down on the table in shock at her admission, astonished that she would feel anything at all about their blood relation. "I'll support your claim, Theon, but not as lord. I would name you king." 

"You think we should reclaim our kingship?" This sounded like an exceptionally bad idea.

"We've already reclaimed our kingship," Asha responded, her eyes flashing warningly at her brother. "Our father wears the driftwood crown. He is our king. And you will be too if you do as you're told. I have conditions."

"Asha, I-"

"They won't accept you unless you take the bloody crown," Asha hissed at him. "Not if you take their independence and throw them to the wolves. You’ll need my support to do do this, or else they’ll tie you up and toss you into the sea. I'll make you a king, brother. That's what you wanted, isn't it? Otherwise, you may as well get on that ship of yours and sail back to your liege lord, kiss his boots a little while you're at it."

Theon said nothing, his eyes blown wide at the turn this conversation had taken. Asha leaned forward to grip his hand, acting like she really wanted this to work.

Why did she even care this much? What was it that she even wanted?

"I would stand behind you. I would be by your side, to guide you. Not as a servant, but as your equal." He paused, wondering what the hell it was that she was suggesting. "I'd guard your back and whisper in your ear. No king can rule alone- you can't do this without me. Even when dragons held the throne, they had men to help them. Make me your hand. I'll protect your pretty little wife and get you that throne but I'll rule  _with_ you, not under you. We could do it, Theon, together."

It finally dawned on Theon. "You'd be the true power behind the crown."

Asha slung her ale to the side before drinking the entirety of it in one go. "The true power, aye, but not the only power. Think about it, Theon."

* * *

 _My dearest aunt Lysa_ , Sansa pressed her quill against the rough parchment, each word written out slowly and with purpose. 

This was just a formality; a hastily written dispatch that she knew her aunt would likely just throw into the fire as soon as she received it. Her mother had sent the same plea to her time and time again, just in the hopes that Aunt Lysa would take action, unlikely as the possibility was. Though Sansa's appeals were doubtless less convincing than Catelyn's -given that she had never met the aunt in question- she sent them all the same.

One every week, sent out like clockwork.

_I implore you to call your banners and declare for House Stark. Grievous crimes have been committed against our family by Lannister forces. Tully blood has been spilled throughout the Riverlands and more will be shed yet if you do not take action. The Knights of the Vale could turn the tides of this war. House Stark would forever be in your debt. I pray the fighting comes to an end soon so that the realm may know peace once more._

She poked her tongue along the walls of her inner cheek, trying to come up with a distinct way to end the request.

_Please give my cousin Robert my warmest regards. I hope to finally meet him when the war is won._

_Your dutiful niece,_  
_  
_ _Sansa_

Once she'd finished penning the letter, she flapped it about so that the ink could dry. It would be at least a few minutes before she could take it to be sent.

Sansa reached for the wooden handle of the wax seal closest to her and turned it over to stare forlornly at the object in her hand, worrying her lip at the sight of the direwolf sigil. She set it aside after a few moments; it wasn’t hers to use anymore.

Holding her slab of wax over the lit flame of the candle closest to her, Sansa let the liquid dribble down onto the paper. It cooled for just a second before she stamped it down with the proper seal. A harsh kraken glared up at her, red, vibrant, and accusing.

 _I'm a Stark_. _I will always be a Stark_. 

There were only three seals on the table, the direwolf, the trout, and the kraken. 

Better a kraken than a crowned lion.

Now that her work for the day was done, Sansa gathered the pile of finished letters before she shoved them unceremoniously into her satchel.

She made her way down the narrow stone staircase, finally ready to be rid of the damned things. She used these moments of rare repose to think about her family back at Winterfell, smiling as she thought about her mother's last correspondence.

Rickon was tall now, almost as tall as she was. Eleven years old. He probably had no idea what Sansa even looked like, let alone that he had two sisters and another brother out in the world who loved him. _Two brothers_ , Sansa mentally corrected herself, unwilling to let herself forget about Jon Snow at the Wall.

Bran was progressing quickly in his lessons as well, still the acting Lord of Winterfell in their brother's absence. Shaggydog and Summer were their watchful guardians, of course, as Grey Wind was Robb's and Ghost was Jon's. Nymeria would return to Arya someday, she was sure. But Lady... Sansa's smile dimmed as she thought of her sweet wolf, taken from her before she even had the chance to live.

"Sansa!" Her sister called out as Sansa passed the kitchens on the way to the rookery. "Settle an argument for us, will you?"

Her sister was dangling off of a high stool in the same outfit she always wore nowadays; a deep blue tunic Sansa designed for her -the one with the little grey wolves embroidered into the sleeves- and dirty brown breeches. Her hair was finally long enough to be styled, though Arya merely tied it off with a hairband. 

"What is it?" Her smile was strained, though she tried to broaden it for her sister's sake. Arya didn't seem to care, turning around to grab something off of the countertop as her friend, Hot Pie, wiped his hands on a rag and sighed defeatedly. He seemed embarrassed as soon as Sansa turned to him.

"Does this look like a wolf to you?" Arya thrust a half-broken biscuit out at her, almost dropping the thing as Sansa squinted to analyze it.

It was lumpy with holes dug into it, with four legs sticking out in different directions. It looked more like a cat or a lizard from Sansa's perspective, though she supposed it made sense that Arya's companion would bake her some wolf-shaped bread. It smelled good, for what it was worth.

"I think it's lovely," she answered diplomatically, paying no mind to her sister's protests that she didn't give them a real answer.

"May I?" She asked Hot Pie, unable to help herself from wanting to have a bite of the delicacy. She was _so_ hungry and just started her moon blood, so she earned this. Startled to be addressed by her, Hot Pie merely nodded while she broke a piece off and popped it into her mouth. Either this was the best bread she'd had in her entire life or her standards had dipped significantly from when she was a girl. Her eyes closed blissfully as she sunk her teeth into the heavenly biscuit.

"Finally done moping over Theon then?" Arya quipped, in the process of chewing something that looked suspiciously like raw dough in her mouth. When Sansa glared at her, she rolled her eyes impishly. "Seven hells, calm yourself. He'll be back soon enough. Don't know why you bother with him half the time anyway. He’s a bit of a prick if you didn’t notice." 

"I don't recall asking for your opinion," Sansa glowered, though her snippiness only inspired a snort from her sister. "And I can do whatever I please. I have a castle to run and smallfolk to feed. While you've been off gallivanting with your _friends_ , I've been-"

"Seven hells," Arya groaned to the skies, already tiring of her sister's moodiness. "Eat your damn food already and stop being such a bitch."

Hot Pie dropped the wooden bowl he was holding with fright, watching helplessly as his lemon custard splattered onto the ground.

Sansa's face reddened, hysteria flaring within her as Arya belittled her in front of this stranger. Looking at her sister then, nostrils flaring, Sansa readied herself for the verbal attack she was about to unleash upon her.

"We've got peaches too, m'lady," Hot Pie interrupted helpfully, holding the fruit out to Sansa like a peace offering to prevent the fight would break out in the kitchens if not for his intervention. 

She eyed it moodily but not wanting to be rude, reached out to take the peach from him. She simmered down a little when he beamed at her, a pitiful blend of unsuspecting and terrified. He didn't deserve her wrath, no matter how much she wanted to shout at her sister. "Just got 'em delivered today."

"Thank you," Sansa said evenly, not daring to take a bite from it while she was still in his company. Fruits like this were messy to eat, so she wouldn't get to enjoy it until she was in the comfort of her chambers, no matter how her stomach continued growling at her. "Are you enjoying your stay here, Hot Pie?" 

"Very much so, m'lady. You've been very good to me," Hot Pie nodded eagerly, his face going a deep red under the heat of Arya's scowl. The girl shook her head at her friend, seething with irritation that her elder sister had charmed him. "Thank you again for sending for me, Lady Sansa. It's an honor, truly, it is."

"Of course," Sansa deflected politely. Suddenly remembering something, she turned to her sister. "I wanted to tell you- we're summoning some men to the castle. Merchants, by the looks of it. They're providing weapons for the smallfolk. If there's _anything_ you'd like to buy," she stressed the word, wondering how horrified their mother would be if she knew Sansa was encouraging Arya to spend her coin on boys' clothes, "-they'll be outside the keep."

Arya's face lit up, the sight of it making Sansa's oversights worth the trouble. "Craftsmen too? The kind that makes swords?" 

"I run a castle, not an armory." Sansa frowned over at her, perhaps harsher than she meant to be. "If you want weapons, we have a forge in the castle."

Arya looked nervous for some reason, her eyes bright with anticipation. "I don't need another sword. Are they going to be here or not?"

"Who?" Sansa's brows drew together as she tried to decipher why her sister was acting like this. Hot Pie, who had moved back over to the cupboard to retrieve ingredients for his pies, distanced himself from the conversation.

"Craftsmen," Arya elongated the word as if Sansa was simple. "Blacksmiths, metal workers, that sort."

It was so difficult to focus on this annoying line of questioning when all Sansa was dreaming about was sinking her teeth into the fruit she was holding. Once she registered Arya's words, she rolled her shoulders back in a shrug. "I'm not sure. Why does it matter?"

Hot Pie was now looking back at Arya, the pair of them exchanging a meaningful look across the kitchens.

It was ostracizing, to be in the presence of two close friends when she had no companions of their own. Sansa felt like an outsider to the conversation all of a sudden, awkwardly hovering in the kitchens as her sister stared into the heat of the oven distractedly.

"No reason," Arya tried to sound nonchalant, worrying her lower lip in between her teeth when Sansa excused herself to go to the rookery. 

She was only a few paces into the courtyard when she passed the guard that Mother left with her, the one who was tasked with watching over Arya. She served Lord Renly when he was still alive but Sansa had never bothered entertaining the woman in conversation. She was Lord Tarth's daughter from the Sapphire Isle.

Sansa turned her head to offer the woman a smile when someone called out to her.

"My Lady?" She turned, considering the meek bald man who approached. Maester Vyman was old, fragile, and soft-spoken. Mother told her he’d been serving House Tully for years and so she always made an effort to be kind to him.

"Yes, Maester?" 

"For you, Lady Sansa, from your brother." He handed her a missive with shaking hands, the yellow gloss of the wolf sigil gleaming in the natural light of the afternoon.  She tore the letter open, her heart throbbing her throat as she scanned over Robb's handwriting. Her head pounded with the impact of the letter, her hand flying to the rope lining the bridge.

Her walls were crumbling as she read each word her brother wrote to her twice, and then a third time after that.

"My Lady," he interrupted warily, knowing the news couldn't be good by way Sansa was looking down at the letter.

"What is it?" Her tone subdued as she willed herself not to cry in front of an old man. 

"Another one," he said simply, holding another message out to her. When she took it from his hands gingerly, he nodded once at her and departed hastily. Robb's letter hung at her side as she regarded the other piece of parchment.

It didn't look like much. There was no seal on it either, to Sansa's confusion. Was this a mistake?

Unraveling the scroll from its string, Sansa read its contents carefully. 

* * *

"He's dead?" Theon asked incredulously, wondering what luck had befallen him that his father would keel over in the middle of the night. He furrowed his brows and peeked upward, seriously questioning if this was divine intervention. Did the Drowned God do this for him? "How the fuck did he die?" 

"Sickness," the Damphair rasped, though it didn't seem like he believed it. "Dead in the night, taken by He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves."

What? Theon blinked and wondered what in all the gods of fire and fuck happened to his jovial Uncle Aeron, who used to ruffle his hair and jest about all the salt wives he was going to take. When had he become such a bloody fanatic?

"Why haven't you called a Kingsmoot then?" Theon asked, impatient to learn if he and Asha's plan would come to fruition. If he played his cards right, he'd get to be a king before long. Robb couldn't be too angry with him, not when he'd be making Sansa a queen in the process. He could picture her standing tall, a driftwood crown of her own nestled in her hair. The thought drove him even harder to want the throne for himself. "You _are_ going to call one, aren't you?"

Aeron stared at him calculatingly, the look in his eyes causing Theon to squirm with discomfort. Should he be more upset about his father's death? He'd been anticipating causing it himself for so long that this seemed like a blessing in disguise; an excuse not to have to murder his father, to not have to choose between his father and his family. He would have time to mourn later when his position was secure and he didn't have a fuckton of wars to worry about. 

Asha stood behind their uncle, smirking knowingly. She glanced between him and his uncle, and understanding dawned on him. Seven Hells, did she... 

His men had not yet roused from their sleep seeing as how the light hadn't even broken yet. He'd almost struck Asha when she woke him in his cabin, dragging him outdoors to meet with their uncle in private. They were standing on the shores of the beach, bleary-eyed (or maybe that was just him) and solemn.

Aeron continued to look at him suspiciously as if he thought Theon snuck into the castle and killed his father himself. "Your sister tells me you're a believer."

"What is dead may never die," Theon proclaimed, raising a fist to his heart. His eyes slid over to his sister, hoping that was the correct answer. He didn't have much experience with ironborn, what with his whole hostage situation taken into account.

"What is dead may never die," Aeron responded, still unsmiling. Gods, he'd grown grim. There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice as he addressed his nephew once more. "And yet you were willing to spill ironborn blood on this soil. Kinslaying is unforgivable. You would have done it without hesitation."

"And you think he wouldn't have?" Theon challenged, quieting down when his sister gave him a warning look. Judging by the way Aeron spat on the ground, he didn't seem too fond of Balon's reforms either. "I- I meant no harm, nuncle, I mean it.”

He was met with a blank stare from his uncle so he continued, hoping he wasn't digging himself into a hole here.

"I drew my sword so I wouldn't look weak in front of my men. That's it," he lied lamely. The scrutiny continued, and so did Theon. "I never came here with the intention of kinslaying. I pleaded with him to surrender the islands to me, you heard it yourself. I didn't want him to die. He was my father. That means something to me."

If he was fucking this up, surely Asha would've interrupted him by now, right?

"And if he hadn't?" Aeron questioned, ever the skeptic. "If he'd lived and refused to surrender the islands, what would you have done then?"

"I would have had no choice but to write to my allies in the North," Theon fudged the truth just a tad. Or a lot. "They would have sent their vessels here to take the islands by force. I would have led the command and taken my father prisoner. But I wouldn't have killed him."

The lie was blatant, but his uncle nodded sagely and looked to the sea. Did he actually believe him or was he willing to accept whatever he wanted to hear?

A few moments passed and Theon almost thought the old man had fallen asleep standing.

"You have married a woman under the eyes of their idols," his uncle raved, shaking his head as he turned to watch the seas. "They tell me you said the words before one of their _trees_ and knelt for it, proclaiming yourself the rightful heir of the Iron Islands. That you wrapped her in a kraken and made her yours, all before false gods. Do you deny it?"

He could see Asha glaring at him from the corner of his eyes, already able to see her indignation at his oversight. He couldn't lie to the man now, not when he seemed to know the finer details of the ceremony already.

"I wed her before a heart tree," he admitted, meeting his uncle's eyes with slight shame. What else was he supposed to do, though? _Not_ marry her? Robb would have been furious and Lady Catelyn would have seen him hanged for it. As adaptable as he was, he didn't think he'd be able to make it here with a snapped neck.

"I've never kept to their gods. Never even pretended to. It wasn't even a real weirwood nor was it in the North. It was just a plain tree in the South. Sansa wanted it," Theon's voice shifted from earnest to suggestive, wiggling his brows once in an attempt at humor. "And who am I to deny a beautiful woman anything?"

Aeron was decidedly not impressed by his devotion.

One look at Asha made him cringe, her glare even darker than earlier.

"No godless man may sit on the Seastone Chair," he scorned Theon. "I've seen it, heard it whispered to me by the Drowned God himself."

So his uncle was mad then. Fantastic.

"I'm not a godless man," Theon insisted desperately, his dreams beginning to slip from his fingers. "I haven't had a way to worship, not when I've been a hostage in the North. I've kept the Drowned God close to my heart, uncle, you know I have. You blessed me yourself on this beach because you know I believe. I would gladly marry Sansa again under the... _watchful_ gaze of the Drowned God. I want him to smile down on me, to bless me with salt and iron. To bless my children as his servants."

Asha nodded along with his words and for the first time in days, Theon didn't feel like a complete failure.

Aeron eyed him with dubiosity but spoke nonetheless. "The waters of wrath will rise high..."

Theon blinked. What the fuck?

"We'll reconvene here in an hour." Aeron grunted cryptically, wandering off to do whatever it was that lunatics did in their free time. "We will see him off to His watery halls. Inform the others. Be there, if either of you intend to take the crown for yourselves." 

Their uncle strolled off of the beach at an impossibly slow speed, trudging across the sand without a care in the world. He'd become a strange man, so different to the smiling young man in Theon's memory. Had something happened to him during the rebellion, or was Theon wrapped so far up in his delusions that he'd filled in the blanks for himself about any relatives he didn't remember?

Once he was gone, Theon turned to Asha and grabbed her elbow accusingly to which she jerked away, easily dodging him.

He snapped under his breath, fearing that someone would hear if he said it too loudly. "You _killed_ him?!" 

His sister’s face was a blank slate, indecipherable to him. "Our father died of sickness in the night, Theon." She grimaced at him, looking spectacularly uninterested in the turn the conversation had taken. "If I were going to kill our father, I wouldn't have done it the craven's way. Would've sunk my ax into his neck so everyone would know it was me who did it," Asha remarked dryly, seemingly unconcerned with the taboo surrounding murdering one's father.

She made a good point- she wasn't the type to resort to poison, not when she enjoyed brandishing that weapon of hers so much.

"I thought kinslaying was a great crime in the eyes of the Drowned God," he watched her with apprehension. "That you were a true believer."

"Then it's a good thing I didn't kill him then, isn't it?" She snapped, offended that he would keep pushing the issue. He gave her a withering look, not quite understanding the depth to her ruthlessness. "Perhaps your speech inspired someone to act, I don’t know. What matters is that he’s gone. Our uncle's drunk on seawater and pride, Theon. I am not like him or our fool father. If you haven’t figured that out yet, you’re a lost cause.”

And after a moment.

”Are you with me or against me? Make your choice now or I'll find another Greyjoy to crown," she snarled.

Silence hung over them as he weighed his options. 

"With you," Theon asserted with false confidence. "I'm with you."

* * *

Greyjoy banners littered the rocks and Theon stood among them, feeling like a pretender in his weathered armor. He'd carved a kraken into it a long time ago, nearly destroying his blade in the process. The shabby armor made him look strong, like he'd paid the iron price for the mutilated armor, though he recalled paying for it with Eddard Stark's gold.

He'd get some armor commissioned someday, one with a shining kraken engraved into it. Perhaps he would even do it while he was here.

His father's pale corpse had been laid across a wooden raft, blood staining his right cheek and his nose. He didn't look much like a man who'd died peacefully in his sleep, but no one said anything of it. Maybe someone dropped his body on the way down from the castle.

A prayer was said for Balon Greyjoy before Aeron gestured for him to come forward.

Theon's legs moved though they didn't feel like his own anymore. Asha joined him from the other side of the rocks, meeting his long strides with her own. They exchanged a glance and he evened his breathing out. They were in this together. United. All the ironborn could see that. So could Robb's men, from where they stood far away from the funeral procession.

When he and his sister approached the body, three more men came forth. Victarion. He recognized the man instantly, his eyes catching on the split golden cloak he wore. The man was broad as a bloody bull. One corner of his mouth inclined upwards in a poor imitation of a smile when they locked eyes. He only identified the others by the stench of the older one. Dagon Greyjoy, the drunk. The other one was Quenton Greyjoy, youthful in comparison to his cousin. Distant cousins but cousins all the same. Uncle Rodrik was waiting for them at the coast, unsmiling.

 _Contenders_ , he thought dejectedly.

The six of them pushed Balon's raft into the sea, wading through the deep waters as the Damphair chanted his prayers to the Drowned God. The waves pushed against his thighs as he released his hold on the raft. 

Only then did he grieve.

He grieved not for his father but for the future he could have had in a better world- one where his father never started a rebellion in the first place, one where his brothers were kind, and his mother was sane. He grieved for the man he could have become if his father loved him the way a parent was supposed to love and raise their child. Theon watched the waves take him, shedding no tears for Balon Greyjoy.

* * *

A few men had already spoken. Gylbert Farwynd, Erik Ironmaker, Dunstan Drumm.

Theon didn't know who the fuck any of them were, just that none of them were particularly successful. Halfway through the last speech, even Theon felt like he was going to doze off. He had sailed for Old Wyk on an unfamiliar longship with a crew he didn't know, most of them sent by his sister to assist him.

 _They need to know they can follow you_ , she'd knocked his breastplate with her fist when he tried to board her ship. _Make friends with the crew and maybe they'll join you when this is done. You need all the support you can get, Theon. Don't fuck this up for us._  

Qarl the Maid, Gevin Harlaw, Maron Botley, Urzen, Skyte, and Uller.

That was all of them, though he had a hard time telling them apart. Some were harder to crack than others but he took to Gevin well enough. They were kin after all. They opened a cask of ale for the short journey. Qarl was in love with his sister, that much was clear by the way he gawked at the Black Wind longingly whenever Theon tried to speak with him. It made him uncomfortable, though he supposed it wasn’t all that different to how Robb must feel about him and Sansa.

He didn't bring any of his original crew along, not when their presence would do nothing but antagonize the ironborn. The Blackfish watched him cynically as Theon boarded the new ship and sailed away from Pyke, the old man's arms crossed over his shoulders in that bleak way of his. His eyes were sparkling with distrust, making him look so much like Lady Stark that it took him aback.

He felt a jabbing at his side and when Asha gestured for him to make his claim, Theon cleared his throat and stepped forward. He peered around him for a moment, his words caught in his throat. 

”Let’s hear from the lad then,” someone called out impatiently. Now or never. “Or is he a mute?”

Light laughter followed, to which Asha quieted them quickly. He looked upon dozens of faces, stoic and expectant to hear from the man they hadn't seen in over a decade. They'd prepared for this. Asha had prepped him in the hours leading to this, trading his cloak out for some rags to his disappointment. He always had a love for the finer things and he wasn't ashamed of it. So what if he preferred silk to rags? But Asha insisted.

He fit in quite well with the ironborn in his new garb, at least on the outside. He clutched at the pommel of his sword and tried to recall whatever it was that his sister wanted him to say first. He smiled eagerly, trying to project the air of someone who was confident in his claim.

"I am Theon Greyjoy," he announced loudly, "The last living son of Balon Greyjoy. I am your rightful king, born on these islands just as you were. I grew up in the North, it's true, but I know reaving. I know what it means to be a warrior! I come before you now to usher in a new age of prosperity and kings.”

He continued with what his sister told him to say to win them over, the words rehearsed though he tried to make them sound like his own. “My father started a war we couldn't win, and I suffered for it. I bled for these islands, for my father's mistakes. Now he's dead and I'm here, alive with iron running through my blood and bones." 

He was bending the truth more than a little but it was worth it when he heard shouts of 'aye' from the men at the shore.

Asha shouted with them, though she looked miffed that it was him making his claim and not her. He couldn't blame her for it. He knew he couldn't do this without her and she knew it too. If she were a man, he wouldn't have had a chance in hell at becoming a king. Despite her smile, her eyes shone with resentment.

"I am ironborn! These islands which wasted away under my father's rule will rise up like the waves of our seas. I will avenge my brother and set Lannisport aflame in their honor, as my uncle did a generation ago! I will lodge my sword through King Joffrey's belly and carve his heart out myself. Casterly Rock is ripe for the taking, men! King's Landing, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Westerlands." He named off any regions he could think of that were not the North, internally thanking Luwin for pestering him with that damned map of his during his lessons. "We will destroy our enemies! Crown me and I'll take the Iron Fleet and sail straight to kill those blonde shits. I reckon we'll find out if they really do shit gold!"

Now they seemed to be following along.

"We will take their homes," Theon's insides roused as he reached for his first gift.

He threw the wrapped ball to the ground, watching as the sum of gold Robb sent him here with spilled to the ground. Underneath the coins was a lustrous yellow lion on half-burnt crimson fabric.

"We will plunder their lands," he threw the next down, a steel helm wrapped in a green Tyrell banner, the stolen armor glittering over the golden rose. He was thankful that his men were thieves, glad to have some spoils of war to present. He then gathered his last prize, ignoring the rowdy cheers of his name in favor of getting this last bit right.

"And we will take back what is ours by right!" He threw the last prize down, disguising some of his Northern crew's weapons as enemy swords overtop a slightly-torn Baratheon banner. The dried blood of bandits caked the edges of the blades, masquerading as the blood of Lannister soldiers.

It was deceptive but Asha assured him that it would work. It was about what the swords represented, not what they were.

His sister stepped forward now, her chest puffing out proudly. She looked more at home here than he ever did

She didn’t wait for them to quiet down before she shouted, just as loud and commanding as her younger brother. Perhaps more so. "My brother was gone. For years, he's been away from home. But I haven't been.” Theon's eyes flitted to his sister. What was she doing? Men glanced at him as if they just remembered that he hadn't been here his whole life. His mouth opened and closed with confusion.

"I've led many of you into battle. Raids along Northern coasts, battles against other men on the sea, pillages throughout the coasts of the Seven Kingdoms. But never have I led my men to the mainland. Never have we _dared_ to steal from the richest cunts in the land. Never have we even tried."

Her cropped black hair whipped in the wind. "Why haven't we? Why shouldn't we? Theon would take us off these damn islands. You may call him green for allying with the Young Wolf. I call it smart," she sneered and he calmed himself, guilt edging at him for doubting his sister's integrity at all. 

"He's made alliances, aye, but not with the rich cunts who killed our fathers and brothers and sons. He's allied with the man who's going to destroy them. Do we do what my grandfather did when Robert Baratheon rebelled against the Mad King? Do we sit to the side and twiddle our cocks while the Northerners take the piss out of us? Do we wait to take what little scraps we can get from Robb Stark? Or do we join ranks and take what's ours by right? With my brother as our King, we can achieve what our fathers before us never could. We will pay the iron price for vengeance and glory. My brother is our king!"

Would ruling beside Asha be so bad if they did it together? He tried to imagine Sansa and Asha sitting together, laughing together. He couldn't really picture it, though he supposed he wouldn't have to introduce them immediately.

”I would see Balon’s son on the Salt Throne!” A bearded man shouted to his left.

”Aye!” Some others called.

”Let it be done!” The Cleftjaw shouted.

Everything was a blur from that point onward, Victarion surprisingly rising up to claim that this was Theon's right, as Balon's last son. He didn't say much but he was intimidating enough that he didn't need to. Then Rodrik Harlaw stood before the ironborn as his last champion and declared that Balon's son would be their king if he had any say in it. He said some other things, things Theon couldn't listen to- not with the blood rushing to his ears as the circle of ironborn around him called out for him to wear the crown.

Euron never showed, to Theon's relief and Asha's growing paranoia.

Even as Lord Botley proclaimed that he should be crowned now, Asha glanced off to the side as if she expected Silence to come peeking out of the rocks at any moment.

It never came.

* * *

Theon's throat was sore from all the retching, trying to put on a brave face as Maester Murenmure beat at his chest. He suspected he’d be coughing up water for weeks after this.  Water droplets dribbled down his cheeks from the drowning he'd endured, the driftwood crown feeling too light on his damp head.

He kept touching it, fearing it would fall off or disappear. 

He didn't deserve this. 

Asha had planned almost everything, as if she'd been saving all of his tricks and tactics for herself since she was a girl.

She probably had been. Of the two of them, most could agree that she deserved it.

Perhaps he'd die at war and save her the trouble of playing second fiddle to her younger brother.

No, they would crown Euron before her. The thought made him shudder, just based on the stories he’d heard about the Crow’s Eye.

He couldn't calm his nerves, reluctant to get as drunk as the men around him.

If the ironborn could crown him, they could un-crown him just as easily.

He watched the merriment around him as he made way for his ship, pushing passed an array of men to get there. He likened their behavior to when Lord Glover and his sons would drink themselves into oblivion at Riverrun. Perhaps they were more similar than he had given them credit for, the men from both of his worlds.

He had just settled on a barrel aboard his unmoving ship when the Cleftjaw clapped him on the shoulder roughly, apparently deciding to catch a ride with him. "Have a drink, Theon," he swung his arm around his 'nephew' boisterously, to which Theon flashed him a winning smile.

Everyone always told him that he smiled too much. He never thought anything of it. _Sansa likes my smile well enough_ , he thought, recalling her soft sighs in his ear the night before he left. "Foamdrinker's at shore then?" He asked the man jovially, glad to have a familiar face to chat with. It made him feel less lonely. It was a ridiculous thought, wasn't it? For a man chosen as a king to feel so alone.

Dagmer swayed beside him, laughing heartily through his busted teeth. Theon recalled when he was six years old, watching on in fascination as Dagmer taught him how to sail his first boat. It was a pathetic thing but it seemed so grand in his once-childish eyes.

"Aye, rode here on the Black Wind," Dagmer spat on the ground before resuming his drinking. "Thought I'd drink myself stupid with you instead this time. How's it feel, being king? Everything you ever wanted?"

Theon looked at him for a moment and then back down at the floorboard beneath him, deciding on whether to be honest with his honorary uncle or not. He probably wouldn't remember it anyways. "I still don't feel like I belong here," he admitted in a small voice, mortified to say it out loud.

"Shut your whore mouth," the Cleftjaw burped, shoving at Theon's shoulder but missing the mark by a few inches. "You're the fuckin' king. How much more do you need before you stop lookin' like you think we're gonna toss you into the sea? You think I'd let anything happen to you here?"

They would sail for Casterly Rock soon to join up with Robb's forces, him and his uncle Victarion leading the Iron Fleet. Asha would stay here, manning the islands in case Euron returned to take the Seastone Chair anytime soon. He would fight his first battle as a king in a matter of weeks.

"I s'ppose not," A smile fought its way onto Theon's face then but when he lifted his eyes to thank the man, he was already starting a brawl a few meters away.

* * *

The rain felt like an ill omen. 

She'd put this off for as long as she could. She wore black for the occasion, her hair in a tight braid at the back of her head. 

A crowd of men were gathered in the courtyard, the prisoners on their knees in front of Lord Pemford. Their hair was dirtier in the light of day than in Riverrun's dungeons, and they begged for their lives as she approached.

"Lady Sansa, please!"

"Sansa, don't do this!"

"Lady Sansa!"

She closed her eyes, remembering her own pleas for mercy a lifetime ago.

Duty felt bitter in her mouth. 

 _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword_ , Father always said.

She couldn't even do that right. 

Lord Jonos Bracken was waiting for her beside the block, the fat man she'd come to know as the captain of Riverrun's guard at his side. He was the one who would be doing this. She offered to do it herself albeit halfheartedly, to which he protested vocally.

It would be embarrassing if she had to hack at their necks to behead them.

It was better this way. A clean execution was more honorable. Merciful, if Joffrey had anything to say about it.

Sansa looked the boys in their eyes regardless, not wanting to absolve herself of the guilt she would feel at committing this act. However necessary it was, it felt wrong. Robb wanted this, she told herself as she stopped next to Lord Bracken. She couldn't disobey her king, not even if she wanted to.

 _Be brave_ , she pleaded with herself. _Be brave like Robb. Like Mother. Like Father_.

She said the words just like she practiced.

* * *

Blood trickled down the side of Theon's face as he wandered through the chaos.

Lannisport was on fire, men fleeing in all directions as the city burned. He glanced out at the Sunset Sea, the oranges and reds of the sky meshing together.

It was mesmerizing.  

There was a ringing in his ears, probably from the impact of getting a club swung at his head. He had a cut going down from his left eyebrow to his jowls, piercing deep into his cheekbone and across his eyelid. It would scar. The thought made him cringe, wondering what he would look like with his face carved up by some Lannister boy with his dirk in the air. He butchered the boy within seconds. His vanity stung worse than his face did, so he pressed on.

He had more men to kill.

Someone shoved him to the side, a member of the City Watch who was trying to salvage the situation. The fool barely got three steps in before a dagger rammed itself through his skull. Theon clutched his sword to his side as the guard crumpled to the ground.

The tiles of the Lannister gardens were stained with blood in front of him, the market being pillaged by ironborn behind him.

Theon whirled around, not wanting to take part in the slaughter happening at the gates just yet.

He pushed a table over, the clatter of coins pulling him out of his reverie as Bloodless Tom brandished five new daggers in his fist. His men were looting the place for all it was worth and Theon was eager to nick something of his own, something expensive to show off to his men afterward.

He surveyed the area for something shiny to swipe, delving deeper into the abandoned marketplace. He stepped over the body of a merchant, pitying the man for a poor choice in trading location. _Probably should’ve gone to Golden Tooth._

Robb stormed the city weeks ago so Theon honestly had no idea why there was such madness now. He didn't care really, not now that his blood was pumping with excitement. Victory was inevitable. As long as he didn't get himself killed, this would be the perfect battle for men to sing about for years to come 

Robb and Theon would be the Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark of their time.

He jerked the tablecloth of another nearby stall as he studied the surrounding area for something to steal.

Robb might say he didn't care for glory but he'd be grateful for the bards once he had a swarm of snotty children and naught to do but eat, drink, and shit. Their armies joined together triumphantly, an obscene number of men uniting as one to break the Lannisters' walls down.

Theon's eyes glazed over, the sight of the battlefield likened to the stories Ser Rodrik told them when they fought with wooden swords instead of steel ones.

Casterly Rock would fall tonight.

A dozen of Edmure Tully's men carried a battering ram in the direction of the Lion's Mouth, Dacey Mormont screaming horribly as she held off anyone who dared to charge at them. Brynden Tully was another familiar face, the black scales of his breastplate shimmering beneath the flames. His mouth was set grimly, not enjoying this nearly as much as his nephew who was at the head of ram with an enthusiasm that seemed misplaced. 

Theon squinted confusedly, trying and failing to tell his own men apart from their enemies.

He cursed whoever lit what he could only assume was a bloody pyre by the amount of smoke that filled the streets.

The City Guard was all but slaughtered at this point. So much for elite soldiers.

His hand grabbed blindly at the untouched table he found in the heart of the ruined forum. Pulling a necklace shaped like an elephant off the table, he wrinkled his nose and threw it to the ground. Looking over the women's jewelry laid out in front of him, he tried to focus his line of sight to find something for Sansa. She liked this sort of thing. Gold, silver, gems.  His eyes roved over the necklaces and bracelets that would likely be worth a fortune if he were buying them the honest way.

He considered taking all of them to present to her and felt stupid for not thinking about it earlier. He snatched about thirty necklaces in his gloved hand, pocketing them as well as an array of gems he saw to their right.

He'd give the nice ones to Sansa and sell the others. 

Now for a weapon... 

Theon supposed he could just pull one off a corpse instead of digging for hidden treasure in the marketplace. It wasn't like there was a lack of options, what with all the Lannisters they'd slaughtered over the past few hours.

He headed out through the side of the curtained area, grabbing a couple of scarves while he was at it. He shoved the fabric into the sleeve of his chainmail, not knowing where else to hide such a thing without damaging it.

He needed to find Robb.

Where the fuck was Robb?

He paused every time he saw someone in Northern armor, almost running straight into Wendel Manderly as Stark banners came into sight. If Wendel was here and Dacey Mormont was with Edmure, Robb had to be nearby. His personal guard wouldn't have strayed too far from him.

"Theon!" A voice called out croakily, catching on the last syllable of his name. Theon whipped around, his eyes crazed as he hectically tried to find his friend in the pandemonium of battle. He was sure he'd heard him but couldn't see anything, not with smoke and swords obscuring the battlefield.

"Robb?" He called out, his voice rough with disuse. "Robb!"

Suddenly a curly head of hair stood before him, blood gushing out of Robb's mouth as he stumbled towards Theon. His arm was drooping dangerously low. It was dislocated, though Robb didn't seem to mind.

They embraced hurriedly and looked upon each other for the first time in weeks. "What the fuck happened here? I thought you took the city weeks ago," he gasped out as Robb hung onto him so as not to fall to the ground.

Robb shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes as he stared at the dirt beneath them. "Tywin... Lannister sent an army. To aid- aid-" he choked on his own blood, coughing into his hand as his wounds took priority over the explanation he was attempting to give.

No matter what happened here, it couldn't be worse than what was to come. Victarion took down three men with his longsword, impaling one more in the process; Theon could only slash at the men as his friend finally released him, using his own sword to prop himself up.

Grey Wind circled around the two men protectively as the fight raged on.

* * *

Back and forth, back and forth.

Sansa's body wracked with sobs as she rocked herself forward and backward in her bed. She was atop the covers, her face pressed painfully into her knees as she cried. Arya watched Sansa wordlessly, her grey eyes trailed on her as she wept. Arya's face was a mask of indifference.

Perhaps befriending the boys had been Sansa's first mistake. Gods, she'd _killed_ them. Martyn, Willem, with their gold hair and sweet smiles.

Willem always smiled the brightest when she'd visited them, his curious infatuation with her more endearing than anything. They were so innocent to the horrors of the world; she pitied them, envied them, cared for them. They were older than her brothers but reminded her of Bran and Rickon regardless. 

Martyn loved tarts more than anything, though Willem favored lemon cakes. Just like her. 

Tears seeped from her eyes as she drew in a haggard breath. She'd killed them. Sansa had never hated her brother more, hating him for forcing her to do this, hating him for not being here to comfort her, hating him for waging a war when all she longed for was Winterfell.

 _Forgive me, Father, forgive me_.

She wasn't sure what she was asking forgiveness for; ordering the deaths of two innocent boys or being too craven to do her duty without breaking down.

The bodies had been treated respectfully, she made sure of it. As soon as their heads were detached from their bodies, they were wrapped up and stowed away.

She would return them to Casterly Rock if she could, though she wasn't sure where to even start with it. Should she write them a missive? Would she have to get Robb's permission to send them out?

The bodies would be rotted by the time they got to the Westerlands. They would smell too. She frowned and made note to ask the Maesters about preserving corpses, as sickening as the subject-matter was.

Ned Stark's bones had been returned to Winterfell so it seemed only fair that Kevan Lannister be paid the same treatment.

She trembled convulsively, flinching once Arya's hand came down on her back in an attempt at comfort.

She had already vomited twice, once in a pot in the gardens just seven minutes after the execution, and then again in her chamberpot. 

Arya retracted her hand immediately, analyzing Sansa's reaction as it hovered in the air. It was close to the canvas of Joffrey's anger on her back, too close for comfort. The mosaic of scars along her shoulders and back didn't hurt anymore, at least not physically. It carried a different meaning for her now. Only Theon had ever seen them and even then hadn’t commented on it. He knew better than to bring it up to her. 

"They were good," she whimpered through her tears. It wasn't fair, it wasn't. "They were good and I killed them."

"I know, Sansa." Arya's hand was rubbing along her arm now, the touch softer than she thought her sister was capable.

Her cries grew louder, hysteria consuming her as every wall she had built up in her mind came down. She couldn’t speak or think anymore, not when all she could see were empty green eyes. Dead eyes that she took pleasure in imagining on a different face. 

"Let it out. Let it all out."

* * *

Theon shivered as Roose Bolton ambled out of Robb's tent, his cold eyes flitting up to Theon's crown distastefully before he brushed passed him.

Lord Bolton didn't like him but he didn't take it personally. He barely liked anyone.

"And try not to exert yourself too much, alright?”

”I’m fighting a war. Would you like me to stop breathing, eating, and sleeping while I’m at it?”

Theon's ears perked up at the sound of Robb rebuffing someone in the tent, his hand poised at the flap of the entrance.

It was wrong to eavesdrop but he couldn't help himself. Old habits died hard.

”You need rest if you want your arm to heal, Your Grace. What I need from you is for you to lay down and let yourself recuperate.”

”Is that all you need from me?”

Theon nearly stumbled at the inflection in Robb’s voice, suggestive and a tad desperate. How hard had he hit his head?

”Robb.” The woman’s voice was stern now, almost sad.

“I know.”

Silence pervaded the tent for a few seconds, the awkwardness too much for Theon to bear. Both the man and the woman turned to him as soon as he entered, standing farther apart than he thought they would be. 

Talisa Maegyr. 

What a sight for sore eyes.

With her black hair drawn back into a loose bun, she looked like both a queen and a commoner. 

“I’ll... take my leave.” She excused herself then, keeping her eyes trailed to the exit as she left, head held high. "Lord Greyjoy."

Theon hadn't met her but the once, when she’d been treating some man with a stump for a hand. He made a pass at her that day, one that she politely rejected. He hadn’t even known she was sleeping with Robb then, not until he came to Theon weeks later, lamenting about how Sansa walked in on them and ruined everything.

Now his friend was sitting on a bed with his arm wrapped tight in a sling, staring after the woman with sad eyes.

He strode across the room, trying to forget how he'd been in here just hours earlier getting the gash in his face sewn shut. It was an ugly scar, long and fresh. He couldn't cover the whole thing with hair or a beard. At least his eye hadn't been jabbed out. 

Smalljon Umber died in the bed next to him in this room, succumbing to six wounds to his stomach all with a flask of wine raised to his lips.

It still smelled like death here.

"Are you alright?" Theon bumped their shoulders together, trying to comfort his friend in any way he could. It was harder to read Robb now that he was king, no longer the predictable boy he'd once been.

"I don't want to talk about it," Robb muttered sullenly, looking more like his bastard brother than Theon had ever noticed before. 

He pitied Robb, he did. Thinking of Jon Snow made him wonder if Lord Stark had been in a similar position once. Most people wagered it was Ashara Dayne, a great beauty who flung herself into the sea. Theon doubted it though, thinking on how uncomfortable Lord Stark was around women who weren’t his wife or daughters.

He couldn’t picture Lord Stark seducing anyone, let alone the most beautiful woman in the world.

"It's natural," Theon started in an attempt at reassurance, hoping he was helping at least a little. "To want what you can't have. Don't think too hard about it. You’ve got a beautiful wife leagues away and an heir on the way. Focus on them and you’ll be better off."

Smalljon, his cousin Dagon, Stygg, Medger Cerwyn, Wendel Manderly, Clement Piper.

Too many men died in this siege, all for a castle that wasn't even half as grand as he thought it would be. The South was chock full of disappointment, it seemed. They'd taken the city though, at the price of thousands of their men. He hoped it was worth it.

"Do you?"

"What was that?" Theon asked, wanting to hit himself for not paying attention to Robb when he turned to him with those tear-filled eyes of his. He was never the most sensitive man or the most insightful, but even he knew that he needed to be sympathetic to him right now.

"Do you want what you can't have?" Robb ground out miserably. “Other women?”

He paused, trying to remember if he’d even looked at someone else since Sansa. Theon leaned back, knowing the answer to that question. He suspected that Robb did too. She was all he thought about, especially when they were apart. "That’s different."

"I'm sure it is," Robb responded hollowly. "I want to go home, Theon."

"Me too," Theon smiled weakly in response. Robb hadn't commented on the crown yet. Did he even notice? "They made me their king."

Robb's expression didn't change much, though Theon caught his puzzled little frown. "Congratulations?”

His brows shot upward. "What?”

”I don’t know what you want me to say, Theon.” Robb rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t really care right now if I’m being honest.”

“You don't _care_?" 

"The Iron Islands aren't part of the North. They’ve never been a part of it,”  Robb shrugged with indifference. "I don't care what you do with it as long as you stand by me."

"Are you serious?" Theon twisted in his seat to look at Robb, who was staring off as if Theon wasn't even there. “You’re alright with this?” 

"I trust you. I told you to claim the islands and you did that. I don't care if they call you 'lord' or 'king' as long as they're yours. You’ll have to take it up with whoever ends up sitting on that damned chair at the end of this."

That would be years away for all he knew. 

"Your sister's a queen now," he said senselessly, his prepared argument dissipating in the wind. He dreaded the idea of petitioning Stannis Baratheon.

Robb cracked a smile. "She'll love that." He paused. "Do I need to pardon you for... _anything_? Though I suppose if you’re a king now, you can just do that yourself.”

Theon snorted, the idea almost amusing to him now. "No. My father died in his sleep a day after I got there."

"He died in his sleep," Robb responded flatly, the same way the Blackfish had done when he found out. “How convenient.” 

"Good timing," Theon confirmed and that was the end of it. "I suppose you'll have to call me Your Grace now."

"I'll do no such thing," Robb protested with faint laughter. "King Theon’s as far as I’m willing to go.”

* * *

”I thought we took Casterly Rock.” Theon was confused. They were all gathered around a stone war table in Robb's tent, staring down at the map in front of them.

Roose Bolton looked annoyed but said nothing of it, leaning against the frame of the table before he spoke.

"We weren’t able to breech their walls,” his voice was pinched, irritation seeping into his tone. Robb told him Roose had argued with him for hours about their next course of action. He wanted to abandon the Westerlands and return North, a sentiment that was echoed by a large portion of Robb's bannermen. None of them dared to say it though, not when they all had kin that had died in this war. They wouldn’t be satisfied until Joffrey’s head was on a spike.

“All we can do is starve them out. They can’t hide inside the rock forever, especially without a steady supply of food and water.”

”And whose army do you propose remains here, your grace?” Roose Bolton asked, his voice steeled as if waiting for Robb to take a metaphorical shit on him. “Mine?”

”I have other plans for your army, Lord Bolton,” Robb flashed him a cautious smile, not bothering to expand upon who he wanted to stay here.

Understanding dawned on Theon when Lord Flint and the Greatjon turned to look at him.

”You want me to leave my fleet here.” 

“Not all of it. Just enough to secure the region.” Everyone was staring at him now.

He hesitated. “And I would be....”

”Spread between Maidenpool and Gulltown. With the rest of your fleet.” When he didn’t say anything, Robb pushed to give him more incentive to do as he wanted. “When the time comes, you'll take our men across the Blackwater to King's Landing. It's your choice, Theon.”

That wasn’t so bad. Hearing that it was up to him made him feel better about agreeing to it. ”When do I leave?” 

“Soon. And don’t let your men do anything that my men wouldn’t do." Robb paused and his eyes met Theon's across the table. "Do you understand me?”

”You don’t want them to reave,” Theon realized. He flushed under the heat of the lords’ stares, upset that Robb chose to have this conversation in front of everyone. “They’re Iron Islanders, Robb. Reaving's in their blood.”

”They can steal whatever they want without raping or killing innocents,” Robb shot back defensively to which Lord Umber nodded from beside him, as painfully loyal as ever. Theon eyed the kraken figure on the war table in front of them, weighing his options in his head. “I can’t condone war crimes, you know that. If you're to be my ally and not my bannerman, we need to agree on this. No innocents.”

The atmosphere of the room chilled. It seemed a reasonable enough request, so long as they were allowed to claim _some_ spoils of war.

”Fine. But they can take whatever they want,” Theon conceded to the relief of everyone in the room. “I promised them gold and glory.”

”And they’ll receive it,” Robb affirmed before changing the subject. “We need to plan the next siege soon. Edmure,” he gestured at his uncle who was nursing several wounds from the battle. He beamed at the group of men, far too smug for someone who'd probably fuck up whatever task was given to him. "-will hold Lannisport in my absence. Ser Marlon will be his second-in-command. He'll inform you if you're to remain here. Some of our forces will remain in the northern part of region..." 

* * *

Jon was elected Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

It was the first good news she'd heard in weeks. Nothing was sweeter than hearing from her family.

Sansa felt an ache in her chest every time she received a scrawled-out letter from Bran or Mother; she nearly wept the first time Rickon wrote to her, his writing barely legible but his all the same. He was as wild as Arya was at that age. Hearing from Jon was one of the only things she had to look forward to. Little happened in the Riverlands nowadays save for minor raids and bandit attacks now that the Lannisters retreated further south.

It was a welcome change to how the region suffered when she'd ridden through it with Theon, or even on her way to the Twins. Historians said that the Riverlands always bled the worst during any war, often crammed between warring houses and regions.

Jon slipped his good news into his letter to Arya, likely not wanting Sansa to make a big deal out of it.

"We have to visit him," Arya demanded to Sansa when she was unwrapping Robb's raven to her, the first she'd heard from him in weeks. "I want to see him again."

"We'll see him soon, Arya," she murmured distractedly as she read the contents of the letter.

 _Coming back soon. Robb._  

She was a little disappointed that it was so brief, wishing she had a clue as to when he would be arriving. 

"When?" Her sister pouted as Podrick Payne struggled to carry a sack of wheat passed them, assisted by Lady Brienne once his toil became too obvious. Sansa looked up at Arya, furrowing her brows. It wasn't like _she_ was at fault for this. If it was in her power, she would do it. She couldn't come up with an answer for her. 

Arya's eyes filled with frustrated tears. "I don't want to wait five more years to see Jon, Sansa."

She was already gone by the time Sansa reached a hand out to comfort her. 

* * *

“Be careful, you hear me?" Robb was squinting under the harsh glare of the sun. It was baffling how different the conditions of weather were in the Westerlands.

The climate wasn't unenjoyable to Theon, though he wished he could take a dip in the sea so that he wouldn't burn quite as severely under the light.

He was leaving Victarion here, trusting his uncle to follow orders at the very least. He was an idiot but was loyal to a fault. He was a damn good captain, as well.

Theon would need to get around the Reach without running into trouble. The thought made him nervous. No one knew where the Tyrell forces were, not with how little news was leaving King's Landing. If they had the Redwyne fleet manning the borders of the Reach, it would create issues for them.

No one had really heard anything at all since Joffrey married the Tyrell girl nearly a year ago, just a few bits and pieces here and there. There were whispers of a religious uprising, whispers that most of the Riverlords dismissed immediately on account of Tywin Lannister being in power.

He could very well be sailing right into Mace Tyrell's forces. That would be a disaster. He wasn't a seasoned captain, no, but the Iron Fleet was experienced enough in naval warfare that they could put up a good fight. The Tyrell army was the largest in all of Westeros, though. They'd likely just wipe each other out.

"When am I ever not?" They laughed with each other dopily before Theon's smile faded slightly with awkwardness. "Tell your sister that I-"

"Please don't make me hear whatever you're about to say to me," Robb cut him off, his expression twisted with discomfort. "You can tell her yourself."

"Just tell her I miss her, you prick," Theon laughed, shaking his head and wondering how they had gotten here. "And I'll miss you too, for what it's worth."

"Fat chance of that," Robb snorted, though he hugged his lifelong friend all the same. It was a good hug, warm and intimate. Theon pushed down the mortifying lump at his throat but paused when he felt Robb shudder into the hug. Was he _crying_? "I'll miss you too."

"Stop crying before I do, you bastard," Theon whispered, holding onto his best friend tighter as he wished things could be as they once were. He'd give anything to be back in Winterfell, pointing out all the pretty serving girls in hopes that Robb would kiss the one he fancied. "We're kings."

"Kings can cry," Robb tsked defensively before he pulled away a bit, his eyes a little red but otherwise fine. He extracted himself from the embrace altogether and looked around at all the men working at fortifying the ruined walls of Lannisport. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Theon."

"You as well, Stark." Theon smiled warmly at his friend before they parted, Robb in the direction of the encampments and Theon towards the harbor.

He boarded the Lion Slayer, his men already at work.

Qarl stayed with Asha and Gevin was dead, but the rest of them all remained. Three of the Harlaw boys joined his ranks- he'd hoped Harras would join him too but he had his own ship to man. Maron's boys tagged along as well, as well as Burton and Cleftjaw. He haggled with his uncle for his steersman but came up unsuccessful.

Nevertheless, it was a real crew now, one worth sailing with.  

He couldn't help but look back at the Stark banners as his ship left the shore. 

* * *

From the moment his banners were spotted, she stood at the gates of the castle in anticipation. 

It was nearly an hour before he approached, but she waited for him all the same.

She wrapped her arms around Robb's neck as soon as he dismounted his horse, having run all the way across the bridge to get closer to him. It was a dash of warmth to an otherwise cold place. 

He laughed loudly at the warm reception, swinging his sister around as his men watched on with mild amusement.

* * *

With Robb came Brynden Tully, who took most of her duties over within days.

She was grateful that it wasn't Edmure at least. Now all she had to do was run the household, a job which came easier to her than answering missives and hearing requests all day. Sansa was relieved at the reprieve, now finally getting to indulge in the habits she actually enjoyed.

They were sitting in Edmure's solar now, finishing up the meal that they had the servants bring to the room.

Her uncle was hosting a feast in the Great Hall but Robb said that he'd prefer to eat in private, away from all the men and duties for one evening.

It was just the two of them tonight, sitting across from a small table that definitely hadn't seen much use lately.

Arya was already eating with her friends outside when Robb went to fetch her for dinner, so she wouldn’t be joining them either.

If he was surprised at Arya's attire and attitude, he didn't show it. He expressed more unhappiness with the company she kept, now on his ninth straight minute of complaining about the way one of them conducted himself around her.

"He shouldn't be so familiar with her," Robb grumbled into his chicken. "Help me here, Sansa."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "He's no more familiar with her than Hot Pie or Harys are."

"But neither of them are..." Robb choked on his words and chicken both, needing to reach for some water to get the dry food down. "They're not..."

"Attractive?" Sansa teased, a glint in her eye. Robb glared though the sight of it was amusing compared to the looks Cersei Lannister used to give people. He looked like an upset child when he pouted like that. 

"Don't say it like that," he sniffed disdainfully, an action that she imitated whenever Arya said something to offend her. "I don't trust him, Sansa. It's something about his look. I don't like it."

What Arya did with him was no concern of hers. By Sansa's assessments, Arya could do as she liked. If anyone in their family needed a keeper, it wasn't her sister.

She laughed heartily and drank the remainder of her sweet wine, enjoying the taste of it more than the sour stuff she'd always been given before. "She can make her own choices, Robb. I think it's sweet that she's taken a liking to him. She's almost a grown woman. If she wants to fool around with the blacksmith, she'll fool around with the blacksmith. It won't do us any good to try to stop her. She'll only want it more if we tell her not to do it."

Robb's forehead creased with unease. "She's betrothed to my wife's brother, Sansa."

As if she needed reminding.

Arya needled her about it every other week, asking what Sansa's plans were and when she planned to actually execute it. 

“Betrothals don’t always last forever,” Sansa said cryptically to which her brother narrowed his eyes with suspicion.

“Sansa.” He deadpanned, knowing where she was going with this.

”Her marriage is years away, Robb," Sansa put her feelers out now, knowing that having this conversation now would come in useful when she brought it up again months later. "Who says she can’t follow her heart in the meantime?”

”Like you followed yours?” He raised his brows skeptically. 

Sansa side-eyed Robb, pouring more wine into her goblet as she attempted to steer the subject to herself, more for her own benefit than her sister's. 

"Did you see him while you were away, Robb?" She set the flagon down then, reaching for Robb's hands across the table. "Does he miss me?" 

"Aye, he misses you," Robb snickered. "He's good. He's uh.... he's a bit of a king now, actually."

Sansa dropped his hands and her fork clattered against the table. "What?"

"It's a long story," Robb continued stuffing his face and Sansa stared at him, absolutely bewildered that he would skim over such a thing happening. He didn't look up from his food until Sansa cleared her throat, a little angry that he hadn’t told her earlier. "Mother might actually forgive me for letting you two marry now that you're a queen."

Butterflies danced inside of her stomach at the thought of a crown upon her head and Theon at her side, the notion of it almost too dreamlike for her to believe it could actually come to fruition. "How did it happen?"

Robb shrugged. "I didn't ask. We were a little busy, what with fighting an army and all. He's got the Iron Fleet, Sansa," Robb's eyes shone with excitement now that they were on a subject he cared more about, though Sansa was hung up on the fact that her husband was named a _king_ like it was nothing. "You should have seen them. Big ships- _monstrous_ ships, and hundreds of them at that. It was a true siege, Sansa, just like the ones from Maester Luwin's stories. The ironborn joined us in battle and we both damn well almost died, it was-"

"You almost died?" Sansa stopped him again, not minding the annoyed look he threw her at the interruption. "What happened?"

"It's a war, Sansa," Robb drolled. "Anyways, we fought side by side. Me, Theon, Grey Wind. All our men. It was bloody chaos. We cut down at least two-hundred men, just by ourselves." Sansa's stomach rolled at the thought of them killing anyone. "Gods, it was... it was something else. You should have been there.”

“I doubt I would have liked it much,” Sansa tried to keep her smile plastered on, a little sad that this was something she would never be able to share with either of them. Or Arya, for that matter, who was getting more proficient with her sword each day. ”How did he look? Good? I haven't heard from him in so long, Robb.”

”I don’t know, Sansa. I tend not to notice how good my mates look when we’re in the middle of a fight.” Robb sounded exasperated now, funneling more and more cheese into his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk about this. At her dismayed expression, he let up a bit. “He looked... well enough.”

”I miss him," she murmured, glancing away from her brother as she gathered her thoughts.

”I can tell,” Robb didn’t seem as annoyed now but still seemed to want to talk about anything else. “It’s still strange to me. You and him.”

Sansa caught a glimpse of something on his face- something she couldn't place. “Does it bother you?” 

”Not anymore. I’m glad you’re happy,” he smiled wistfully. "It's all I've ever wanted for you, Sansa."

"What about you?" She longed to see him grin like he used to, like someone who enjoyed living rather than someone who just endured it. "What would make you happy, Robb?"

She could think of a few things that he might say- his wife, his child, Winterfell, ending the war, killing Joffrey, peace, freedom, harmony, family. None of those answers were what he gave her, though. All he did was chuckle to himself and shake his head. "I don't know."

* * *

"He would never agree to it."

He paid her no mind, dipping his quill back into the ink thoughtfully. The writ was half-finished though it would do him no good to keep going. Stubborn as always, he ignored her protests. As closely as he listened to his sister, he wouldn't let himself be steered by her counsel this time.

"Robb," she sighed, putting both hands on the table to try to get his attention. "You know he wouldn't." 

"You don't know that," he finally set the utensil down, looking up at his sister like he always did with Mother whenever she would nag him. 

"Yes, I do." Sansa retorted. Jon was never the type to shirk his duties. He wouldn't abandon the Night's Watch for any reason, especially not just after being elected as the Lord Commander. He was one of them now. Robb sighed and took one last look at the decree before moving it to his ledger, filed away for later.

He seemed to hesitate over the other papers, unsure of what to begin working on.

This was her chance. She'd grappled with herself about whether to show him the letter or not, keeping it stowed away for nearly an entire moon's turn. It weighed down on her for the entirety of his time back at Riverrun, a responsibility she never wanted to bear.

It was addressed to her mother, sent by a man she hadn't thought about in years.

"Robb," she held the scroll out to him, closing her eyes defeatedly as he took it from her.

* * *

 _King Joffrey is growing more unstable by the day. He sees enemies everywhere. The queen's influence over him is waning and I fear for his state of mind. Tyrion Lannister is now in the service of Daenerys Targaryen. She has an army_ _at her back and three grown dragons. With the right motivations, I believe she would be receptive to negotiations with the Young Wolf. It would be to your benefit to consider an alliance with her. Do with this what you will. Varys._

* * *

“I'll go," Robb declared just as she knew he would. He was always the first to volunteer for the most senselessly dangerous jobs. “It should be me.”

"Don't be stupid," Sansa countered. "You can't go. You can't abandon your men. Send me instead."

Robb looked at her like she'd lost her mind and spluttered at her, shocked she’d even suggest such a thing. "I'm not sending you to negotiate with a Targaryen."

"Why not?" She crossed her arms over her chest, annoyed that he still underestimated her. She thought he would have begun seeing her as a true leader now, especially now that she had been running this castle for longer than its true lord.

"It's dangerous," he retorted as if the answer were obvious. “And you’re my little sister.”

"So _you_ should go instead?"  

"Yes, I should go instead." He didn't even blink when her jaw dropped in disbelief. If she was a queen, wasn’t it her right to negotiate with another one? In truth, she was more worried about what would happen to Robb’s armies if he abandoned his host to travel across the Narrow Sea. They’d likely all go home. 

"What if you die? We don't have another King in the North, Robb," he drew in a calming breath, moving to slump down in his chair as she continued chipping away at his plan. "Her father burned our grandfather and uncle alive. She could easily see you as a threat and have you killed the moment you get to Essos. And who would stop her? You would be leagues away without any way of getting back to your army, and-"

"Then who should I send, Sansa?" He didn't have the patience for the case she was building. "Theon?" She was silent, knowing full well that he wouldn’t work as an envoy for Robb either. "I thought so."

"What about our uncle?" She offered, realizing the flaws with that choice as soon as she said it. After everything that happened with the windmill, she doubted Robb even trusted Edmure to carve up his meal for him, let alone negotiate with a dangerous queen on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

"He's at Lannisport," Robb responded simply.

"Uncle Brynden?" 

"He has to stay here, Sansa. Riverrun's been without leadership for too long."

 _They had me_ , she wanted to scream, frustrated with her brother for overlooking her efforts. She bit her tongue. "What about Lord Bolton?" 

"Taking the Westerlands," he sighed, rolling his head back on the cushion to examine the finer details of the ceiling. "I needed a man I could trust for the job."

Frustration spiked within her, fully convinced that Robb must have someone capable of doing this. "What about your guard? Dacey Mormont could go to her." She was a strong woman too, so maybe that would appeal to the Dragon Queen. She was kin to the Dragon Queen's closest advisor, as well...

"I can't send a Mormont to negotiate for me." He huffed. "It has to be me, Sansa." 

"She could kill you, Robb." She argued, striding over to where he was still sitting. He glanced up at her with the look of a man who was exhausted with the world around him. "You'd die in Essos. Your armies would scatter and the Lannisters would win, Robb. They would _win_!"

Robb stood up abruptly, knocking his chair backward in the process. "Then what do you suggest we do?” He was shouting now, his frustration pouring out at once. If only their mother was here so she could just go in Robb's place. “Tell me, Sansa. What do I do?"

She faltered and looked away, unable to think of anything that she hadn't already said. "I don't know."

"Very helpful," her brother sneered, running a hand through his hair with frustration. He was halfway out of the lord's chambers when Sansa called out to him. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Bed." Robb scowled. "Unless you have objections to that too."

The door slammed behind him.

* * *

She wasn’t sure why she was here. 

Lady Brienne didn’t dare question her, having heard her entire argument with Robb earlier in the night. She merely stood beside her dutifully, abandoning her guard rotation to accompany Sansa to the dungeons.

As soon as she was a few feet away from the Kingslayer’s cell, her stomach rolled with anxiety. This seemed like a better idea before, when she just needed to talk to _someone_. She didn’t feel like doing this anymore, still thoroughly repulsed from the last time she’d spoken to this man.

The hot plate seemed to scald her hands through her gloves all the sudden. She considered dropping the plate but thought better of it, not wanting to taunt the sleeping man with dirty food he couldn’t eat.

“Brienne,” she whispered, hoping she didn’t wake Jaime Lannister with the sound.

”Yes, my lady?” Brienne responded at a normal volume, not catching along to the fact that Sansa wanted to slip out of here unnoticed.

She cursed under her breath when the prisoner stirred, looking at her through the dim light of her guard’s torch. 

“See to it that he finishes his meal. I’m going to retire for the night. I don't feel very well.” She explained with a meek smile, placing the plate in front of Jaime’s cell without making eye contact. Sansa still felt horrible about his cousins, her guilty conscience twisting even further when Robb never even asked her about it.

If she hadn’t done it, would he even have noticed? 

Lady Brienne nodded and gently kicked the plate closer to the man who analyzed the food as if it were poisoned. 

She began to leave, almost rejoicing at escaping unscathed when the Kingslayer addressed her. “Lady Sansa. My sister?”

Taking pity on him then, she turned her head to the side. “Still alive from what I hear.”

She could feel his relief from where she was standing. Brienne was looking at him with thinly-veiled disgust, likely unable to conceive of a man laying with his own sister. She was as much a stickler for honor as her father was. The thought of him brought back memories about how little he cared for Jaime Lannister when he was alive, even before a dagger was plunged into his leg and Jory was killed in the streets of King's Landing.

Now she regretted giving him even a sliver of comfort.

He seemed to take a moment before asking his next question as if he wasn’t sure whether he truly wanted to know or not. “When this is all over...”

Sansa looked at him warily, the answer quite obvious to her. He would be executed. There was never another option, no matter who sat on the Iron Throne.

He was treasonous one way or the other, whether he was cuckolding the rightful king or plunging a sword through his back. Stannis Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen would both see him executed for his crimes, and the realm would understand. Expect it even. One pardon was generous enough for an entire lifetime.  

It seemed cruel though, to keep him alive and in chains for so long only to take his head at the end of the fighting.

She didn’t have to respond for Jaime to have his answer. “Ah, I see.”

* * *

“I should have just stayed at the bloody crossroads if I’d have known you’d be like this!”

A man’s voice boomed through the stables, the sound of it overwhelming his surroundings. Sansa made a face, feeling rather prickly at the fact that someone was being this loud at such a late hour. She was just walking around, trying to clear her head after a long day.

“Why did you even come here anyway?” She overheard her sister yelling back, freezing as she swiftly tried to calculate alternate routes to the castle. “If you hate it so much here, I don’t see why you should stay. Go back to the crossroads. It's not like I care."

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left in the first place,” the man’s voice was just as loud this time, but his voice cracked on the second-to-last word. Sansa didn't have any time to react when the argument continued, the two voices overlapping with impatience.

Sansa stuck around for a moment, ready to call for a guard if Arya needed assistance. She trusted her sister to handle herself but had to make sure that this wouldn't be dangerous for her.

”Maybe not.” Arya spat back at him and Sansa could just picture her standing there with her teeth bared and furious eyes. It was always an amusing sight when Arya got cross with people, especially if that person wasn’t her.

A dark-haired man stormed out of one of the wooden partitions of the stable, walking right by her without even noticing her there. It was the blacksmith. 

Deciding to mind her own business, Sansa headed to the godswood in hopes that it would be a little quieter there.

* * *

Things weren't going well in the west.

Whispers of torture reached Riverrun, torture at the hands of the Boltons. 

There were vicious stories, ones that even her grand-uncle hesitated to share with her. Roose Bolton's bastard son had gone on a rampage up North just months ago, according to what they had heard.

Hundreds of flayed men allegedly decorated the walls of the Dreadfort, though the notion of such a thing seemed ridiculous to Sansa.

She'd learned from her time at King's Landing that people were prone to exaggeration when they wanted others to be afraid.

Robb hesitated to send men to detain him and for once, Sansa agreed. 

They couldn't know the truth of these rumors, not when Roose Bolton was one of the most level-headed of Robb's advisors. He had no reason to betray them, nothing to benefit from. It was hard to believe that he would just turn his men loose on the Westerlands after years of nothing but staunch loyalty to Robb.

They had their disagreements, of course, but it was no different than with Robb's other advisors.

Instead, Robb wrote to Edmure, asking him to investigate the claims for himself. 

* * *

Edmure's hand was sent to them in a box, skinned and malformed. A letter accompanied the limb, though Sansa never read it.

* * *

She pled with Arya to come with her but she refused, insisting that she would wait until Robb took King's Landing to leave Riverrun. Sansa thought she saw a glint in her eyes as she said the words but said nothing of it. If she killed every last royal in the Red Keep, Sansa would call it justice.

She didn't fight her on the issue or press it any further. If Arya set her mind to something, nothing Sansa could say would deter her from it.

Sansa would be at the Vale in a matter of weeks, bringing one final plea to her aunt to join in the fighting. Bolton soldiers were flaying hundreds of people in the Westerlands, doing it brazenly, publicly- like they wanted to be caught. No one understood it. Robb ordered that anyone with the flayed man on their banners be arrested for questioning on sight, though no one had seen Roose Bolton since the attack on Lannisport.

"Tell me what the moon door looks like, will you?" Arya sunk the tip of her sword into the training mannequin. "I've always wanted to know."

* * *

"I'm sorry," Robb whispered into her hair as they stood together, his hand carding through her red locks comfortingly. "Forgive me?"

She nodded wordlessly into the hug. Looking at him now, she could still see the boy with snowflakes in his hair and a blinding smile on his lips. She wanted him back, though she supposed that might be asking too much.

Wasn't it enough that he was here? That he was alive?

Perhaps neither of them would ever be whole again.

"Write to me as soon as you get there, Sansa," he insisted, leaning back to look her in the eyes. "The moment you get there, alright?"

"I will." Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, she studied his expression. He didn't think they would see each other again. "Don't do anything reckless, Robb."

Before he could respond, the Blackfish approached them with purpose. Once he was standing before her, he cleared his throat. "You did well here, Sansa," he assured her with a warm smile that he reserved for very few people. "You'll always have a home at Riverrun."

* * *

The sea sparkled at Maidenpool, just as it did when she was first here in a tattered outfit and messy braid. It took her breath away. The warmer climate was also a welcome change to the marshes of the western Riverlands. The sun kissed her face, the feeling of it unfamiliar to her after spending so long at Riverrun.

The party sent to accompany her protested when she requested to detour from the crossroads, but couldn’t stop her from doing it. Their trip would be a little longer but not by enough to warrant causing a fuss over.

She suspected that the men with her were just relieved that they weren't among the men sent to deal with the Boltons. For all their treachery, they still shared blood with the majority of the men who fought alongside them.

She wandered the docks, eyes blown wide at the number of ships at the port; she’d never seen this many in one place. It was impressive and terrifying, much bigger than any of the boats she had ever boarded. They all looked the same to her, so she couldn't be sure where Theon was located. They walked in silence for several minutes, Sansa flanked by three men in full armor.

They left their horses near Fool's Gate, Lord Alesander staying behind to watch them. His presence had been her saving grace throughout the journey; he was a singer and provided much-needed entertainment on the ride there, though it annoyed his elder brother endlessly to hear him sing. Robb assigned him to Sansa's guard for her benefit and she was grateful for it. Having a bard on hand made the time pass a little faster.

Lord Flint glanced from side to side cautiously, walking a step in front of her for her own protection. 

"Ser Perwyn," she started sweetly, attracting his attention instantly from beside her. He was always kind to her on the road, a true knight among so many unworthy ones. "Which ship did Lord Roymund say Theon was working on? You don't suppose we've passed it already, do you?"

"The Lion Slayer, my queen." Lord Blackwood chimed in from behind her. "Said it's long and black with a kraken at the head of the ship. We can't miss it."

She bit back a smile at the name Theon had given it.

"You'll know it when you see it, I assure you." Ser Perwyn smiled helpfully. "I saw it myself while we were at Lannisport. The whole fleet was impressive. The sight of them would have had me quaking in my boots if I were on the other side of that attack. The ironborn can fight, I'll give them that."

A burly man sitting to the side of the rocks was gathering rope into a pile in front of him, while another was crafting some kind of a weapon with hot coals. She adjusted her cloak self-consciously, not knowing how to interact with the ironborn just yet. What if they hated her? She knew nothing about their culture or traditions and lamented that she hadn't taken an interest earlier.

"Sansa!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice, rushing ahead of Robin Flint to spot her husband standing at the docks. She stopped just in front of her guard, taking the sight of him in for the first time in over two months. He looked so different with longer hair and an entirely new outfit, but it was _him_. 

Sansa rushed towards Theon and met him halfway across the platform, clutching at his shoulders as soon as he lifted her off the ground in a crushing hug. 

She buried her nose into his neck, inhaling deeply even as his body shook with surprised laughter. "Sansa," he breathed into her hair, reciting her name like it was the only word he knew how to say.

This was the reunion she dreamed about every time she laid alone in their bed and clutched the covers to her chest, wishing more than anything that someone would hold her and make all of her troubles disappear.

Her eyes slid shut as his hands settled around her waist. She drank him in, basking in the devotion that was radiating off of him. He pulled back after several minutes, his lips curved into an affectionate smile as he watched her with wonderment.

Her eyes were drawn to the long scar along the side of his face, wondering how he got it. It looked like it was a few weeks old, still red and healing but no longer at risk of infection. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing the wound softly. He didn't flinch under her touch but just leaned into it.

"It took you long enough," Theon grinned as his hand came up to cover hers, guiding the palm of her hand towards his mouth. He pressed a kiss to it, smirking as soon as the action coaxed a giggle out of her. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," she murmured back to him ardently, her spare hand tugging on one of his curls with absent-minded fondness. 

* * *

Moments like this made him think he was dreaming.

Theon was reclined against the headboard of his bed, his arm stretched lazily behind his head as his wife strode over to his writing table. They were on his ship, the cabin doors locked so that they could do as they pleased with no interruption. He quite liked it here, sequestered off from the rest of their people with no one but him and Sansa.

They were the only people in the world in this room- while they were here, there were no wars or worries. 

Their silken blue covers were wrapped around her body in a poor imitation of a dress, tied off and tucked into her breast so that she could flounce around without risk of it falling. Not that he minded much.

She had no reason _not_  to be naked, he thought mischievously as she turned her back to him. He’d rather prefer it if she was, actually. 

She placed the driftwood crown atop her head and spun around to model it to him.

He laughed at the sight of her in his garb, the thick wood of the crown hanging lopsided on her head. She cackled loudly, prodded on by his reaction and twirled around, the fabric of the blanket acting as skirts that billowed around her. She danced to the tune of an inaudible song, laughing uncharacteristically as she pivoted round and round.

When she tripped over her own feet and tumbled onto the bed, she lurched forward to cover his body with hers.

She was beautiful like this; carefree and untamed, like the wolf she was.

Excitement swelled within him at the sight of her straddling him, red hair wild around her head. Impulsively, his hands darted forwards to roam over her stomach and then her breasts through the thin fabric of their covers. A light blush painted her cheeks as she settled on top of him comfortably.

Within a moment, he untied the makeshift dress and watched as the fabric spilled back onto the bed.

She pounced on him then, the pair of them as naked as their nameday. He nipped at her lips when she kissed him, relishing in their shared happiness. She leaned into him, unconcerned with modesty or propriety. His hands had just found their way back to her waist when she grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the board above his head. He looked on with amusement, tilting his head up in anticipation of what she would do next.

"It seems I’m in need of a crown," Sansa breathed against his lips heavily, the driftwood crown still hanging slanted on her head rather attractively. “Perhaps I should steal yours."

"Mm, you could," he surrendered to her immediately, quite liking the way that the air of the room shifted when she spoke. Theon shot her a wry grin as her mouth hovered just over his. "I'd be powerless to stop you."

She rolled her hips against his, the action eliciting a helpless moan from him. A flash of victory spread across her face, Sansa delighting in having him at her mercy. He licked his lips as he gazed up at her. "I'll have one made for you. A beautiful one, made with sapphires and silver and all the gems you want."

"Sapphires?" She quirked a brow and leaned over him, their foreheads pressed together. 

"To match your eyes," he reasoned, still held captive by his wife. Who gave a fuck about paying the iron price anymore? He would put the effort and gold into having it made for her. She would be his queen, and a fierce one at that. “I’d have winter roses carved around them.”

"What about wolves?" Sansa asked quietly, their noses just barely touching. Her eyes met his and he found himself unable to look away, now wanting nothing more than to kneel between her legs and worship her for true. 

"Whatever you want, I'll give you." He whispered devoutly. The truth behind those words might have scared him once, when he was younger and stupider. Now it just felt like an inevitability. "I'd do anything for you."

Who needed gods when all that was worth worshipping was right here in front of him?

* * *

Sansa was still catching her breath when he pulled her close to him, his chest heaving and hair plastered to his forehead. He pressed a careless kiss against the top of her head as she shifted to hook her leg over his hips. She nestled closer to him, her arm slung over his torso carelessly. 

"I want a daughter," she declared with an intensity that she didn't mean to unleash on him just yet. Once the words were said, she figured that she would just commit to it completely. She turned her head to the side and brushed her mouth against the skin of his chest, looking up at him with sparkling eyes so that he would be more inclined to entertain this conversation.

"Alright," Theon blinked and glanced downwards. "I'm going to need a few minutes before I can go again, love."

A laugh bubbled out of her throat before she could stop it, and she tilted her head and twisted around in his arms. "Hush. I like the name Alarra." It was a good name, a Stark name. She thought about Roslin all the way in Winterfell, heavy with a child that might never know its father. She didn't want that for them; she wanted a simple life, one like her mother and father had before everything went wrong. "What do you think?"

He squeezed her hip, looking a little surprised at the suggestion. "Alarra?" 

"You don't like it?" He was giving her an inscrutable look and she thought perhaps the name just wasn't to his liking. Maybe he would like Sarra more. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she traced the planes of his collarbone with her index finger. "We don't have to choose that one if you don’t want to."

He was kissing her in a matter of seconds, sinking into it fervently. "I like it," he murmured against her lips. "But I want to name the next one."

She appraised him carefully, bracing herself with a hand on the bed. "I suppose that's only fair." Tracing a finger along his chest, Sansa waited for him to begin naming them off. She knew better than to promise him naming privileges before hearing the names for herself.

"We'll name our first boy Torrhen," Theon started confidently. "Then we'll call our next one Rodrik, and the one after him Robb, and-"

"How many are we planning on having?" Sansa jested, her heart melting completely at the revelation that he wanted to give their children Northern names. She wasn't sure why she expected any different, especially now that he was saying it with such conviction.

The thought of sons... she couldn’t picture them, not without seeing Martyn and Willem Lannister’s accusing green eyes in the back of her mind. Would they haunt her forever?

When her brain caught up to her, she paused for a moment. "Robb?" 

He cleared his throat, looking a little embarrassed. She loved him even more for it if such a thing was even possible. "There's never been one in my house before. It's a good name, don't you think? If you don't like it, we could-"

"I love it," she placed another peck to his lips and felt him smiling into it, his posture relaxing a tad at the reassurance. "I love _you._ "

* * *

They were halfway through their dinner when Ser Perwyn practically tripped over himself to get to them. It was their first meal above-deck, having spent most of the previous three days taking their meals in bed over facing the world outside of the comfort of their chambers.

Theon huffed with annoyance, though Sansa stepped forward with worry at the look on his face and set her forkful of gamefish back onto her plate. "My lord?" 

"Urgent news from Riverrun, Your Grace," he handed a letter off to Sansa and her mind spiraled with all of the things that could have gone wrong. Was Robb dead? Her hands shook as she unfolded the scroll and skimmed over the writing- it was from her grand-uncle Brynden, that much was clear from first sight.

Stannis Baratheon was either dead or captured. The Dragon Queen took Dragonstone. Robb left Riverrun to treat with her nearly a week ago. Victarion Greyjoy took the Crag and Castamere from the Boltons. Arya was safe but there was no news about Edmure.

Shoving the parchment into Theon's waiting hands, she turned to address the knight impatiently. "How long will it take us to get to my aunt?"

Ser Perwyn hesitated as her husband pored over the message. "Two weeks by horseback, my queen. Four days if we travel by ship." 

* * *

"No." It sounded so final, so detached. Sansa tried not to let her annoyance show on her face, biting hard on the insides of her cheek to stop from screaming at the woman. She spent days trekking up here, and for what? Sansa couldn't imagine her mother loving such a woman, even if they were sisters. "We cannot."

The woman's eyes flitted in every direction as if she were scared that someone was coming after her. She sat upon her chair, her pale green dress mimicking the wings of a bird. It was a shame to waste such a beautiful dress on a woman like this. Lord Robert Arryn was sat on her lap, watching her with childlike curiosity. He looked nothing like she pictured, far older than he looked. Even Tommen Baratheon outgrew sitting on his mother's lap, for all that she coddled him.

Littlefinger stood directly behind her aunt, his eyes beady and unblinking. He just married Aunt Lysa a moon's turn prior, according to one of the lords who greeted her at the gates. She recalled her mother saying that they loved each other once when they were younger. They hardly looked like the picture of newlywedded bliss. 

"Your brother was flayed alive," Sansa implored the woman to just listen to what she was saying, unable to believe that she would just let her brother die. Was this woman not a Tully by blood? "Please, Aunt Lysa, he needs you. He's your own flesh and blood. Do the Tully words mean nothing to you?"

Despite her pleas, Lysa remained unflinching. Even as her son squirmed on her lap, her aunt stared down at her as if Sansa was the bane of her existence. "I know my house words better than you, you insolent girl." She snarled and Sansa stepped back, astonished that she was on the receiving end of such hostility. "The only family that matters is my son and husband. I will not endanger them or my men for a war that has nothing to do with us."

"How does this have nothing to do with you?" She was openly exasperated now, though the lords lining the hall seemed unsurprised at the turn of events. "Your brother -your _younger_ brother- is being tortured by our mutual enemies. This has everything to do with you!"

The room was silent. 

"Please, Aunt Lysa," Sansa was not above begging, looking between her cousin and aunt in hopes of swaying one to her side. "We need your help now more than ever. Your brother needs your help." She took a few steps forward and tried to get her distracted cousin's attention. "Please, cousin."

"We cannot risk it," there was an edge to Aunt Lysa's voice now and she was clutching at her son protectively as if she thought Sansa would hurt him. "This conversation is over. Lord Royce, please escort Lady Sansa out of my hall."

"Yes, my lady." The knight responded immediately, offering Sansa an apologetic smile as he gestured for her to leave. 

"Aunt Lysa." Sansa started and the other woman didn't bother to conceal her scowl this time, just wanting her niece out of her sight. "The North remembers."

* * *

"Lady Sansa," a voice called out to her as she readied her borrowed horse for the trip back to Gulltown. Lord Blackwood eyed the intruder with thinly-veiled disgust before returning to saddling the mare for her. She walked towards him, approaching Lord Baelish with distrust. "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

Wasn't he still Joffrey's Master of Coin? What was he even doing here? 

"I'm afraid we never had a chance to speak while you were at court," he started with a slight smile, offering an arm to her. She took it out of politeness more than anything, allowing him to guide her for a walk around the gardens of the Vale. It was cooler here than on the ground. She tried not grit her teeth, recalling every story she'd been told of how he betrayed her father in the middle of the Throne Room. "I was quite preoccupied with my position, so the fault lies with me."

She spared him a sidelong glance, trying not to let her distaste for him show. "Such a shame."

If she wasn't mistaken, his lips twitched with amusement. "I hear you've become a queen."

"I hear the same," she responded curtly, wanting nothing more than to rip her arm away from him. 

"Marriage seems to be treating us both well," his eyes glinted with intrigue. "I must say, I was a little confused when I heard about yours."

He was keeping it short and sweet; a common trick that she remembered being used on her at court. People would always try to get more information out of others than they themselves were willing to divulge.

"How so?" She kept her face devoid of emotion, unsure about what he was trying to get from her.

"It was an unconventional choice, to say the least. The Princess of the North and her family’s ward. You’re all the singers seem to write about nowadays." Littlefinger seemed amused now, rounding the eagle statue on the staircase as he led them along the stone pathway. She wondered if the match reminded him of when he was a ward to House Tully.

"King Joffrey was... displeased when he heard the news,” he informed her with another one of those indecipherable smirks. “Losing his beloved bride to a Greyjoy was quite a blow to his pride, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"He must have been heartbroken," Sansa deadpanned.

"He demanded that your head be served to his new queen at their wedding feast," his eyes were suddenly on her again, the intensity in them making her a tad uncomfortable. "The boy is mad, unreliable, and unfit for rule. Hence why I am here and not there."

She found it difficult to believe he would abandon his position after all he had seen already, but she remained silent.

"My wife is afraid," he came to a stop, swiveling around to face her. "She lets her fear deprive her of sense and reason. Give her some time, my lady, and she'll see that neutrality is not in our best interest. We will declare for House Stark, Sansa." He assured her, standing far too close for her comfort. She would have snapped at him not to be so familiar if he weren't promising her an army. "The Knights of the Vale will ride for you, I assure you of that much."

"Why are you helping me?" She was hesitant to take him at face value, thoroughly confused by the interest he had taken in her.

The way he looked at her made her think he was just lusting after her, though there was something else in them that made her uneasy. 

He smiled as if she had told the grandest of japes. "We should get back, my lady. I'm sure your guards are wondering where you are."

* * *

The ride back to Gulltown was uneventful. At least she had Alesander's singing to distract herself.

"The gardener's son was standing by, three flowers he gave to me," he warbled, "the pink, the blue and the violet true and the red, red rosy tree..."

She suspected she was the only one enjoying this. Lord Blackwood was riding ahead of them, immersed in deep conversation with Lord Royce, and Ser Perwyn was in a sour mood.

Robin Flint at least was in good spirits, bobbing his head along with the tune as they trudged along.

* * *

For all of the places that disappointed her in her life, Maidenpool was not one of them. It was every bit as beautiful as the stories made it out to be.

Sansa was staring out of the window that overlooked the bay, the magic of it not lost on her even after a week here. She recalled looking out at the Blackwater whenever she could when she lived at King's Landing. The sea was always far more beautiful than the capital city could ever hope to be.

Maybe she'd return someday when she had fewer ghosts there.

"I got you something," she turned when Theon spoke up. He was approaching her carefully, holding something out in his hand as an offering to her. "I saw it a while back and thought of you.”

A chain was dangling precariously from his fingers and inadvertently, she thought of Joffrey with his horrid lion necklace and false compliments. His proclamation of love and devotion, and his promise to never be cruel to her again. _He's not Joffrey_ , she calmed herself when Theon stepped forward to present the gift to her. 

Sansa held her hand out, her lips parting as soon as the object was in her grasp. It was a small golden seashell with tiny pearls lining the chain.

When she looked up at him, he was already observing her reaction to the gift. She handed it back to him with a giddy smile and turned around, gathering all of her hair into her hand so as to expose her neck. 

"Put it on for me?" She asked when he didn't move.

Then his warm hands were at her shoulders, brushing a stray hair out from the nape of her neck to make room for the jewelry.  It warmed her insides to think that he was making an effort to be romantic for her. When he fastened the clasp with only minor difficulty, she released her hair and spun in his arms. He was beaming down at her, his eyes crinkling around the edges like she'd been the one to give him a gift instead of the other way around.

* * *

Theon was frowning when she returned from her trip to the baths, not even noticing her enter. He was hunched over his writing table, hardly moving as she approached him with caution. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a little comforted by the strained smile he offered her. If anyone else had gotten flayed alive or burned by supposedly-extinct magical creatures, he wouldn't be so calm about it. "What are you reading?"

He sighed and shook his head, standing up to allow her to take his seat. She sat in his place as he wandered over to their bedside table and poured himself a glass of wine. It was a letter from Robb.

_Theon-_

_Just in case you were wondering, I'm still alive._

_Talks with Daenerys Targaryen have been going well. She is receptive to our offer to work alongside her to remove Joffrey from the throne, though she is insistent that I bend the knee. I plan on remaining by her side for the foreseeable future in hopes of convincing her that we can become allies in the wars to come._

_Her dragons are more impressive than you could ever imagine, Theon. The three of them follow her like the direwolves follow us. It's incredible. The biggest one, Drogon, is a magnificent beast though I don't think he likes me very much._

"What is this?" Sansa turned to her husband to see him gulping the wine down greedily.

He set the empty glass back down on the table and shook his head, beginning to unbutton his jerkin. "Robb's report. Keep reading it, tell me what you think."

She skimmed the next few lines, not having the patience to hear Robb's descriptions of the Dragon Queen's pets. Gods, he could never seem to gather the strength to write long letters to either of his sisters but when it was about dragons, he was suddenly the most talkative man alive.

_She's inspired loyalty among thousands. Her translator told me that when she freed the Unsullied from the masters of the Red City, they chose to follow her for the first time in their history. She's freed millions of slaves, most of whom still follow and love her. Daenerys was born only a few moons after me and she's already changed the world in ways most people can only dream of. She's a strong woman, stronger than any of the men who want to sit on the throne._

_The Dothraki are formidable warriors, though they don't speak a lick of the Common Tongue. They believe in her and I'm beginning to see why. She rules with strength and mercy but listens to her counselors. Ser Barristan serves her as does a Mormont, and Tyrion Lannister as well (though we already knew that). I've taken the time to know her and I don't think I've ever met a woman quite like her before._

Sansa stiffened, praying to every God out there that this was an elaborate jape. Nausea swelled up inside of her as her eyes raked over the letter. It didn't seem like he was being held hostage, but she knew not to make any hasty judgments before she saw him in person.   

"He seems quite taken with her," she commented flatly.

_I would see her on the Iron Throne but I will not commit to putting her there until we have negotiated for Northern independence._

_With Stannis Baratheon dead, she is effectively the only option we have. She is a revolutionary. All of the stories and myths about her don't live up to what she's like in person._ _Trust me, Theon, she is phenomenal. She will be a good queen. Of that I'm certain._

 _I urge you to come to Harrenhal to treat with her. We will be arriving at the castle in_ _a week’s time. I expect to see you there. She's very eager to meet you. She's open to hearing suggestions. If you offer her your fleet, I'm confident that she will hear your request for independence. She has a little less than half a hundred ships and has expressed an interest in bringing the remainder of her army from Essos. If you do her this service, she may consider an alliance._

_I look forward to seeing you again, brother._

_Robb Stark_

_The King in the North._

She scoffed with disbelief, unable to believe that Robb had been swayed by the first pretty face he'd seen. No wonder he'd written to Theon and not her. Gods, she wished her mother was there to bash some sense into him. "He can't be serious."

"People _do_ say that she's the most beautiful woman in the world," Theon reclined back on their bed. When Sansa glared at him from across the room, he grinned lazily at her. "Easy, love, I'm not the one calling her phenomenal. The Dragon Queen couldn't hold a candle to you. You know I've always favored redheads."

She couldn't laugh, not when her entire body felt like it was on fire, her nerves getting more fraught by the second. "Theon..."

"I know," he murmured, patting the spot beside him to beckon her over.

She held Robb's letter over the lit candle on the desk, watching on as it went up in flames. Only when it crumbled to ash in her hands did she clamber back into bed. 


	5. the past that's haunting me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with this one, guys! I want to thank all of you amazing people who have been leaving comments and kudos- y'all are literally the best and make me feel so fuzzy inside whenever I get notifications. 
> 
> Again, there's some risky stuff in this chapter but I hope you like it!! We're in the endgame now!

"Don't tell me you're scared, love." Theon trotted beside her self-assuredly with a bow slung over his shoulder, jesting as he always did in situations like this. He was on the same horse that he took to war, a black stallion with moonlight in its hair.

As far as warhorses went, Smiler was a sweeter horse than any she had ever known, almost to the point that she was a little jealous that he didn't belong to her. She'd grown rather fond of the one Theon just bought for her at Maidenpool though, a chestnut mare with reddish hair that matched her own features nicely. She had named it Autumn, thinking that it suited the horse rather well.

The four days she spent with the horse were pleasant, so much so that she hoped to bring her back to Pyke when this was all over. Between their pair of horses and Maegor back at Riverrun, they would have their own miniature battalion to fill the stables with before long. 

The thought brought a smile to her face no matter how strange it was for her to imagine a home that she had never seen before.

It would be different from Winterfell, but she always knew that her future home would be. At least they would be close enough that her family could visit every now and then. Perhaps they could even foster Rickon on the islands if he was looking for a bit of adventure, though she doubted that her mother would be amenable to send her youngest son away from his home for an extended period of time.

She looked at Theon's profile once Harrenhal's five towers came into sight and her skin crawled at the reminder of where they were headed. She wondered how he managed to remain so calm on the ride over.

They were walking into what could be certain death and he was  _whistling_ like they were on some sort of joy ride.

Theon grinned over at her as their horses walked side-by-side and blew her a kiss when she continued staring at him. 

"This place is cursed," she replied darkly. "House Whent is extinct because of this castle."

Everyone knew about what this castle did to its occupants. Seven families were wiped out, all because they had the misfortune of living there. She thought of her grandmother, the one that her mother seldom talked about. Her parents rarely ever spoke of their ghosts, though she couldn't fault them for it now. Sansa thought of her father's sad eyes and wondered how he managed to keep going after losing nearly every person he loved in his youth.

He was stronger than she ever gave him credit for.

She tried to remember every detail of his face whenever her mind wandered to his memory; the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile, the slight smattering of grey in his brown hair, the rough slopes of his cheeks to his beard, the tickle of his beard against her cheek whenever he would hug her...

_How long do I have to look?_

Rage spiked within her as she thought about the queen they were going to meet, the queen whose family wiped out almost an entire generation of Starks. Hadn't her family lost enough? Hadn't they bowed for enough tyrants to last a lifetime?

At least Harrenhal already burned down once, Sansa thought grimly, so it wouldn't be too much of a hassle if it happened again.

"House Whent's-" Theon's voice suddenly broke off when a flapping sound came from a distance away. She squinted to see something in the sky, her eyes widening as soon as she realized what it was. Theon veered his horse off in front of hers, frozen in place as a massive creature ricocheted above them.

It spun around in the air and for a horrible moment, Sansa was afraid that the dragon was going to crash onto the ground or worse, on top of them.

She wasn't sure whether to keep staring at it or to squeeze her eyes shut, anticipating that it would set her aflame before she had the chance to make a decision at all. The dragon didn't do that, though, instead zooming overhead and extending its pale yellow wings out as it soared above them.

It was... playing? 

Her jaw slackened slightly at the sight, not daring to breathe in case it somehow got the beast's attention. It screeched again, thrashing its wings and dipping lower toward the ground before flying back upward again. All of their men were either frozen with fear or crouched on the ground beside their horses, scared half to death at the appearance of a creature that should not exist. The age of dragons had long passed; it shouldn't be here- it shouldn't even be alive.

It was gliding in the general direction of the Isle of Faces, likely looking for something to eat.

The dragon was just out of her line of sight when she finally exhaled, her hand braced on her chest as her horse whinnied with alarm. 

Theon's horse seemed a bit more frightened, rearing into the air with him still on its back.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, terrified that the stallion would throw him off. He clung to Smiler and eventually steadied the horse, whispering into its ear until the dragon was long forgotten.

Theon turned back to her, eyes blown wide as he struggled to leap off of the saddle, his foot getting caught in the stirrup when he touched the ground. 

"Are you alright?" His words came out in a jumble but she still made sense of them, nodding in response as he rushed toward her. She felt her cheeks heat when she realized that their entire party halted behind them, watching her for some sign that she was going to faint or something along those lines. "Sansa?"

"I'm fine." It couldn't hurt her. It wouldn't hurt her. It was gone. "We should go. We're almost there."

"Are you sure?" He was looking at her with those same concerned eyes, his gaze roaming over her form in search of injuries that couldn't possibly be there. He reached for her gloved hand, squeezing it when she didn't immediately turn to him. Harrenhal suddenly seemed a great deal safer than the fields around it.

"I think we've spent enough time admiring the view," Sansa kicked her feet lightly to urge Autumn into a slow gallop. She caught a hint of a smirk edging onto his expression when she circled around him, her hair tumbling over her shoulder all the while. "Don't you?"

* * *

Ser Barristan Selmy greeted them outside, smiling at her amiably as soon as she dismounted her horse. 

She remembered the day he was dismissed from Joffrey's service. It was when her world was still bright and rosy; when Father was still alive and she had some hope in her heart that Joffrey would spare him a life sentence at the Wall. She knew little about the horrors of the world back then, as innocent and trusting as any child would be. They were both shamed in that room for the entire court to see. Disrespected and dishonored with little more esteem than a pair of courtly fools.

Looking into his blue eyes now, Sansa saw an honorable man. He wouldn't have beaten her as the others did, she was almost sure of it. He wouldn't have stood for Joffrey's cruelty or Cersei's schemes. Though... he stood by the Mad King until the end of his reign, hadn't he? Was that why he pledged himself to his daughter? Out of guilt? Duty, perhaps? Mayhaps he always planned on turning against House Baratheon and his dismissal gave him the perfect excuse to turn traitor.

 _No_ , she attempted to chase her suspicions out from her mind.  _Ser Barristan is honorable. One of the last honorable men in the realm._  

"Lord Greyjoy. My Lady," he bowed for the pair, his longsword gleaming at his side. "It relieves me to see you alive and well."

"You as well, Ser Barristan." She smiled at him, still a little hesitant that such a distinguished man was serving the Dragon Queen. She supposed that spoke more to her character than his. It gave her more credibility. Perhaps that was why she sent him to greet Sansa over her other Queensguard. 

"It's King Theon to you, Selmy," one of the ironborn men spat out from behind her, his voice curving around Ser Barristan's name as if it was poisonous. It seemed like they knew each other by the way they eyed one other. "Mind yourself, else I'll have to stick my blade into that armor, rough it up a bit, maybe tarnish that pretty white cloak of yours while I'm at it." 

The knight didn't look surprised at the correction nor did he seem fazed by the threat- he much looked like he'd been expecting all of it, actually.

With a nod of concession, he looked them in the eyes. "My apologies, Your Grace. Queen Daenerys has anxiously been awaiting your arrival, as has your brother, my lady. She's taken the liberty of having your chambers prepared in one of the towers. Lady Missandei will help you get settled in." 

Her attentions were diverted towards a woman who'd just snuck over from within Harrenhal's gates, a timid look on her face as she waited for her chance to introduce herself. Missandei approached them and dipped into an unpracticed curtsey, one that made it clear that she knew little about their customs.

She was making an effort, at the very least, and Sansa could respect that.

* * *

"We have servants who speak the Common Tongue in the upper chambers if you find yourself in need of something." Theon was already bored with this conversation, just longing for a little bit of sleep before the next few days ahead of them. He felt like jumping for joy when Missandei moved toward the chamber doors as if to leave. "Please don't hesitate to utilize them. They're here to ensure that your stay is as comfortable as possible."

Gods, he hoped Sansa wouldn't ask any more questions.

He was feeling rather sticky in his outfit, not having gotten a chance to change or wash up since they began their trip to Harrenhal days ago. Theon tapped his foot impatiently and just barely restrained himself from groaning aloud when Sansa spoke again with critical eyes.

"Where is my brother?" Right to the point then. "I need to speak with him urgently."

Missandei paused for a moment- a moment too long if the way Sansa narrowed her eyes was any indication of what was going on in her head. She was always so paranoid that someone was trying to pull a fast one over her that it was a wonder that she trusted anyone at all.

Theon kicked off his boots as the woman carefully phrased her response to Sansa, diplomatic enough that she wouldn't be accused of being evasive. "Your brother will be notified of your arrival immediately, my lady. You are a valued guest of our queen and an important ally in the war ahead of us. You have our queen's full hospitality throughout your stay here."

Her misuse of the title didn't go unnoticed. 

Sansa nodded temperately when Missandei closed the door behind her. She stared after her as if she was trying to figure out the world's most difficult riddle. He sat on the edge of the bed so he could strip his tunic off comfortably, clearing his throat in an attempt to get her attention.

"What was this place called again?" Theon asked with a wry smile. Anxious energy continued exuding off of Sansa, though he did manage to get her to look at him instead of the odd space near the door that she'd been staring at before. All Sansa needed was to have a good laugh and she'd forget all about the Dragon Queen.

Now, to gauge her mood... he didn't want to risk upsetting her anymore, knowing better than to get in the way of Sansa's wrath.

"The Tower of Dread," Sansa sighed as if it were obvious, reaching irately for her scarf and yanking it off of her.

It fell to the ground near her feet, marking one of the only times Theon had ever seen her treat her clothes with such a flagrant lack of care. She began unfastening the front clasps of her dress and  _that_  got his attention, stirring something within him that trumped his need for sleep.

There were only six of the buttons and she was already halfway through, but it was his  _duty_  to help her in case she was struggling, wasn't it?

He snuck up behind Sansa and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him. She inhaled deeply when his hands landed on top of her own, finishing the job for her as quickly as he could manage. The fabric parted for him immediately, practically falling off of her once it was free from its restraints.

He pressed a kiss beneath her earlobe, making a decent effort to woo her now that his exhaustion was completely sapped away from him for the time being. 

"Apt name for a tower," Theon whispered into her ear, his lips just barely brushing her skin. She made an annoyed sound but leaned into his touch all the same, tilting her head back to allow him more access. He mouthed at a spot on her neck before pulling back just the slightest bit, ignoring her sighs of encouragement in favor of toying with her just a bit more. Teasing her was practically his area of expertise. "It's rather tall, isn't it? Fascinating history behind it too, or so I've heard-"

"Shut up, Theon." Sansa ordered breathlessly and for once, he actually did as he was told.

* * *

"You stand in the presence of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Queen of Meereen and the Bay of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons."

Sansa squared her jaw, trying to get a sense of what this woman was like despite the distance between them. 

They were in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, a fabled place that was even larger than she could have dreamed. It was even bigger than the Great Hall in the Red Keep. The room was empty save for the Queen's small council and a variety of soldiers lining the hall. Her men all had the telltale long black hair and mismatching layers of clothing that Robb had described when he wrote to Theon about the Dothraki.

They looked spectacularly out of place, though she supposed all of them did. Harrenhal was not the place for a meeting like this.

What was Robb thinking when he invited them here?

Daenerys Targaryen sat on her throne on a dais above them all, a detached, frustratingly-regal air to her, her advisors standing a few steps below her.

Missandei stood on the slate floor with Barristan Selmy and another man clad in armor to their side. He was wearing a green tunic over his armor, one with a bear emblazoned on it proudly. It didn't take a scholar to realize that this was the Mormont who'd been pledged to this queen since his exile when Sansa was just a small child. Father never told her much about the disgraced Lord of Bear Island but she overheard him mention it when he explained the concept of exile to Robb once. She was too young to understand what any of it meant back then, but all she knew now was that Ser Jorah was a traitor twice over, no matter what his royal pardon said.

She recognized Tyrion Lannister immediately, but he looked different from the last time she had seen him. He was still wearing the pin that he wore the day that they were separated during the riot, but a long scar spanned across his face. His eyes were bloodshot and his beard aged him by nearly a decade. 

Robb wasn't among them to Sansa's disappointment.

"Welcome to Harrenhal." Her voice rung through the hall, soft yet self-assured. “It is far past time that we met, Theon Greyjoy. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Gods, she even sounded like a dream.

The smallest of smirks played on the Dragon Queen's lips, entirely too beautiful to be real. Her silver braids were wrapped intricately around her head, small bells jingling with each movement she made. She was wearing a plain black dress, a silver chain fastening her burgundy cape to the outfit. It was masterfully done, Sansa couldn't help but notice, her eyes stopping on the red trimmings of the woman's shoulder-pads. 

She was breathtaking and she was terrifying, and the sight of her smile stunned Sansa into complete silence.

She wouldn't let herself be fooled by something as arbitrary as looks though, no matter how pretty the Dragon Queen was. Cersei Lannister was beautiful too and she was the most monstrous of them all.

“All good things, I hope.” Theon japed, his attempt at charm drawing a few raised brows from the others present. He stood straight rather than kneeling before her, and the subtle reminder that he would not bend contradicted the easy smile on his face. "It's an honor to be in your presence, of course."

"We are grateful for the invitation to treat with you," Sansa chirped, her voice as soft and sweet as it once was at Joffrey’s court. She didn't know this woman and wasn't willing to take any risks, especially when Theon was teetering on the line between mild flirtation and blatant disrespect. Her lips curved around the words, her honeyed tone doing little to conceal her nerves. "My brother has spoken very highly of you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys Targaryen's violet eyes flashed even in the poor lighting of the hall. "The King in the North is one of my most valued allies. I hope I can say the same of you in due time, Lady Sansa." Sansa schooled her face into a mask of cordiality, noting that Daenerys seemed to acknowledge Robb's title but ignored Sansa's one.  

The subtle insult peeved her slightly but could only mean good things when it came to Northern independence. As much as Robb had sung his praises of the woman in his letters to Theon, at least he hadn't bent the knee to her.

"I would expect nothing less," Sansa returned with a smile that would have seemed amiable if one wasn't well-versed in politics. 

Daenerys seemed to catch on rather quickly. She lowered her gaze and chuckled to herself softly before returning her attention to Sansa. If Theon was annoyed to have been forgotten, he didn't show it. "I look forward to it then." Without breaking their eye contact, she addressed the man to her right. "Lord Tyrion."

He instantly perked up, taking a step forward before he spoke. "Yes, my queen?"

 _My queen_ , Sansa rolled her eyes internally. It was bizarre to hear Tyrion address anyone in that way, recalling just how openly he loathed his sister and nephew in the capital. It was strange to see him so devoted to this queen when he had put so much effort into protecting the Lannister legacy when she last saw him. What happened in King's Landing to push him away from the family he so staunchly stood beside in the past? What had Joffrey done to drive Tyrion into a Targaryen's service?

"Has Lady Sansa gotten a chance to speak with her brother yet?" Daenerys asked the question as if she didn't already know the answer herself. 

"No, Your Grace," Tyrion responded slowly, his eyes darting over to meet Sansa's, undoubtedly thinking about the last time they were in this position. A monarch before them on their throne, Sansa drenched in her own tears and blood, and Tyrion holding his hand out to her in an effort to spare her any more humiliation. He looked exhausted at the notion of playing along with this game. "I don't believe she has."

"See to it that she does," Daenerys waved her hand as if to conjure the man out of thin air. She was making a show out of her generosity, that much was clear by the fact that Robb was being lauded over them like a gift. "We can discuss the finer details of an alliance once the Greyjoys have had a chance to rest."

* * *

Robb was already waiting for her when she entered the room, dressed in some dark finery that she had never seen on him before with two metal wolves fastening his cloak together. His face broke out into a lopsided grin before the door even closed behind her, looking so much like the boy he used to be before the North placed a crown on his head. She immediately noticed the half-eaten bowl of grapes on the desk, a mess of papers beside them, and two chalices to their left.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you," he laughed breathlessly and for a moment, Sansa wondered if someone had replaced her brother with an imposter.

His smile faded just a bit once he realized she was alone but was still as blinding as she had ever seen from him. If he was this happy to see her, she had to wonder why he hadn't bothered writing anything to her lately beyond a few sentences. "Where's Theon?"

"He wanted to give us some time to catch up," she reassured her brother, a half-truth if she ever told one. Theon was still gorging himself on the cheeses brought to their chambers by one of the maids, anxious to have some food in his belly now that it was almost midday. Sansa couldn't stomach the thought of food, not before she saw her brother with her own eyes and had some form of confirmation that he wasn't a prisoner here. "I would have come sooner but the Dragon Queen wanted to greet us first." 

"Of course she did," Robb gestured for Sansa to sit wherever she wanted, his eyes crinkling at the ends. He spun on his heel to meander around the room for a moment and stopped beside his window to look out at the grassy moors outside before plopping himself down on his chair. "So, what did you make of her?"

She examined his expression carefully, unsure of how she should interpret -or even begin to answer- the question. "It doesn't matter what I think of her." When he threw her an unimpressed look, she straightened a little in her chair. What did he even want her to say? "She seems... determined." 

"She's unrelenting, isn't she?" He griped without the slightest hint of malice in his tone. "Daenerys still wants me to bend the knee, even after all this time. Brings it up every day, like I'm going to have a change of heart all of a sudden and start calling her  _my queen_  like the rest of them do." He laughed heartily but the sound didn't make her feel any better about the situation. "Gods, Sansa, it's not going to happen so you can stop staring at me like that. The North will remain as independent allies to the throne. I'll still be a king but we'll be... friends, in a sense."

"Friends," Sansa tested the word out, finding it hard to believe that a Targaryen queen would just accept the North's secession. "And she's alright with that?" 

"Well, she's not  _happy_  about it." Robb rolled his eyes, "but she's a reasonable woman. She knows the North won't bend for her, not after what her family's done to ours. As long as we help her take the throne, she'll support our secession. She'd be risking too much by making an enemy out of us."

That was true. With the Lannister's influence spanning throughout the West and the Tyrell forces holding the South, half of the realm was already united against her. If Robb turned on her now, her armies wouldn't survive a battle with his forces as well as with the Crown. Still, there wasn't anything preventing her from turning on them afterward, when Robb was the only thing standing between her and ruling the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms.

If Daenerys still thought that there was even a slight chance at winning the North for herself, what was stopping her from taking her dragons to Winterfell's gates and demanding that they kneel for her when the war was won? 

"Robb," Sansa started uncertainly, "is it really sensible for you to be-"

"Calm down, Sansa." Robb tore a grape off of its stem and popped it into his mouth, leaning back in his chair as he chewed. "She'll keep her word, I'm certain of it. I wouldn't have asked you to come here if I wasn't." He looked at her pleadingly, almost like he wanted to reach across the table to take her hand. "I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing, Sansa. Can you do that for me?"

Sansa worried her lower lip in between her teeth as her brother waited for her response, nothing but doubt riddling her mind. "Yes."

* * *

When they entered the room, the first thing Theon noticed was Robb hunched over the war table, light streaming in through the broken walls behind him.

He wasn't alone. Daenerys Targaryen was standing close to him, the pair already immersed in a discussion that seemed to exclude everyone else in the room. They bickered in front of their audience, Robb's mouth twisting upward in spite of the irritation plain on his face. They were arguing about which road to take in their impending confrontation with the Boltons, presenting the merits to their plans -and the issues with the alternative- as if no one else was in the room.

"It would leave us vulnerable to attack," Daenerys argued, sounding far less entertained than Robb looked. Their shoulders brushed as she gestured to the wooden pieces on the board below her. Tyrion hadn't noticed them enter yet, his eyes following Daenerys as she leaned over the table to move the wolf-shaped map marker to sit on the Goldroad. "We already have a plan. It's a good one, one that we do  _not_  need to remedy. We'll take the Goldroad, fight off the Boltons and-"

"We can't very well fight the Boltons if Tywin Lannister's ambushed us from behind, can we?" Robb interrupted heatedly, standing closer to the Dragon Queen than Theon would have dared if it were him. "The River Road's safer. Surer. It'll take a few more days, but it'll get our men there with fewer casualties."

"The Lannisters wouldn't risk sending another host to meet us," Daenerys gripped at the ends of the table, her nostrils flaring like she had explained this to him a thousand times. "You're preparing for a battle that will never come to pass. Taking the Goldroad is the best way to ensure that we take the Boltons out of the equation before they can do more damage to our combined forces."

Robb wordlessly grabbed the wooden map marker from where Daenerys had placed it, his eyes glinting challengingly as he dragged it over to the River Road. 

She ground her teeth together when he leaned back in defiance, arms crossed over his chest like he had won some unspoken war against her.

Her hand darted out to grasp the piece as soon as Robb set it down.

Their eyes remained fixed on each other as she moved it back to the thin yellow line that marked the Goldroad, releasing the piece as soon as she made it clear that Robb was fighting a losing battle. Something indiscernible passed between them as they stared each other down, neither of them willing to give in.

"If it isn't Sansa Stark!" Tyrion clapped his hands together and the spell was suddenly broken. "The famed Princess of the North and the Queen of the Iron Islands."

Robb and Daenerys withdrew to their respective spots, and Sansa stepped forward to stand at the opposite end of the war table from the three people at the head of it. It didn't sound like Tyrion was mocking Sansa, but it was difficult to tell with the sardonic way that his smile seemed to settle on his face.

"My lord," Sansa acknowledged him in that soft voice of hers, ever the lady no matter the circumstance. 

"It's good of you to join us, my lady." Tyrion's grin ebbed away as he locked eyes with Theon. Damn it all, the man could at least  _pretend_  to enjoy his company for the sake of his own self-control. This reminded him of when they had spoken in Winterfell, insult traded after insult for no reason other than to irk the other. Sansa's hand squeezed the crook of his elbow comfortingly as Tyrion addressed him as coolly as he could get away with. "You as well."

It was times like these that Theon reminisced about the ease he felt at Robb's war councils early on in his campaign; he missed how the pair of them would lock eyes and try not to laugh whenever Roose Bolton would speak, japing at the man's expense right in front of him.

Here they were, over five years later and still around a bloody war table.

"I thank you for offering your fleet to our cause," Daenerys began, hands clasped in front of her. "We will forever be in your debt for your aid in the battles ahead of us. Once I have taken the throne, I will ensure that you receive the credit and gratitude you are due, my lord."

Theon almost laughed aloud at how polite she was being, finding it rather amusing that she wouldn't call him by his title. His eyes met Robb's across the table and stifled a chuckle at the way Robb was biting down on both lips to keep himself from bursting with laughter. Perhaps things hadn't changed that much after all.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Theon managed to get out without embarrassing himself. If Sansa's hand was squeezing his arm a little harder than necessary, he pretended not to notice. He couldn't think of anything else to say to that, trying not to will himself out of existence when silence overtook the room.

"I don't believe we've had a chance to be acquainted with everyone here, Lord Tyrion," Sansa chipped in helpfully to which everyone turned to the Hand of the Queen expectantly. There were at least two dozen people here, all dressed in a variety of garb, and glancing around the room as if they didn't know how to even begin to speak to one another. He only recognized a handful of the men here, the ones who had been sworn to Robb from the beginning.

"How thoughtless of me," Tyrion responded bitingly, though he complied quickly enough. "Ser Jorah Mormont, one of our Queen's closest advisors." He gestured at the balding man wearing green, the one standing directly behind Daenerys rather than at the table with them. She had an entire group of men gathered behind her so Theon could only assume they were her guard. "Ser Barristan Selmy, Aggo, Jhogo, Rakkharo, Strong Belwas, Commander Grey Worm..."

How the fuck was he supposed to remember any of these names?

"Princess Arianne Martell and her nieces, Nymeria, Tyene, Sarella, and Obara. With her are Ser Daemon Sand, Lady Elia Sand, and Ser Garibald Shells." 

Theon wasn't all that interested in politics, it was true, but he was almost certain that the Dornish were aligned with the Crown. Wasn't Joffrey's sister shipped off to marry their prince? What was she doing here if Dorne had sided with the Lannisters? He chanced a glance at Sansa to find her with her brows drawn together, likely wondering the same thing. This could only mean that the Dornish planned on betraying the king, didn't it? Or there were some serious lapses in communication.

"Lord Monterys Velaryon," he gestured to a boy who couldn't be much older than eight, a seahorse splayed on his tunic and silver hair of a similar look to the Dragon Queen. "And of course you're familiar with the King in the North and his men."

Rickard Karstark and Marq Piper didn't look much happier than any of the Freys present, though the hardest to ignore was Maege Mormont who glared at her nephew as if she wanted to skewer him with any sharp object in her vicinity. Lord Blackwood ambled his way over to where the other Northerners were standing, though Lord Flint and Ser Perwyn stayed in their place behind Sansa. None of the Tullys were here, though he supposed the Blackfish wouldn't leave Riverrun for any reason with the Boltons armies advancing on them. When Tyrion turned to look at Theon with raised brows, he realized that they had no way of knowing any of the men he brought with him. He gestured to the ironborn standing to his left, all looking bored out of their minds.

"My cousin, Quenton Greyjoy, Maron Botley, Ralf the Limper, Dagmer Cleftjaw, and my uncle, Rodrik Harlaw." He introduced quickly, not wanting too much attention drawn to them. His men all leered at Daenerys as if hoping to entice her with their toothless grins.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lords." Daenerys nodded with another cordial smile. "I think we can all agree that the means by which we travel is the least of our concerns. Once we've defeated the Boltons in battle, we make for King's Landing. If we can count on the Greyjoy fleet to get us across the Blackwater, we can begin and end the siege of the capital in a matter of weeks. If the pretender Joffrey Lannister does not cede the city, he will starve inside of it."

Something told Theon it would take a little longer than a few weeks, but he made no comment about it.

It was best left unsaid, especially if his job would be as simple as she made it out to be. 

Arianne Martell tossed her black hair over her shoulder as she exchanged an unreadable look with one of the girls at her side -whichever one it was, Theon wasn't sure he remembered any of their names- and huffed loudly. "I don't see why we don't just torch the Red Keep, kill the Lannisters where they cringe in their castle, and end it all in a day. Why do we need to stage a siege when we have dragons at our disposal?"

"And kill thousands in the process?" Tyrion interrupted, more impassioned than he'd ever seen him. "What exactly would we achieve by burning King's Landing to the ground? The dragons will  _not_  be used to slaughter innocents, not when we can take the city peacefully."

"This is a war, Lord Tyrion. If you don't have the stomach for it, perhaps you shouldn't sit on a war council-"

"Enough." Daenerys' voice commanded the room with all of the strength of a seasoned ruler. Theon had to admit that she put on a good show if nothing else. “I am not here to be Queen of the Ashes. We will lay siege to the capital on all sides and  _that_  is our plan."

"So it's to be a blockade?" Robb asked, his eyes scanning over the table as if to picture it for himself. "I wager the Lannisters would be more likely to surrender if we keep the dragons nearby, remind them that they're there. They need to know that they don't have a chance of winning this war.”

Daenerys turned to Robb, an eyebrow cocked upward as she heard him out. He continued, a little more self-assured now that everyone was looking at him. “A blockade could take months, Your Grace, but if we take the city with our armies and keep the dragons close on hand, we could-"

"Your Grace," a bald man wearing silks spoke from the entrance of the room, his robes practically dragging on the ground as he rushed towards the Dragon Queen. He had a very distinct look to him but Theon for the life of him couldn't place where he'd seen the man before. He approached Daenerys and whispered something into her ear for several moments. Something changed in her eyes as the man withdrew, whatever was said prompting her to excuse herself from the meeting.

"I hope you'll forgive the interruption, but it seems that I have urgent matters to attend to," Daenerys announced, the very picture of composure despite whatever had been said to her. "Our houses shall stand together for the first time since the War of the Usurper. We are making history, all of us, united in our mission to rid the Seven Kingdoms of its tyrants. We'll reconvene on the morrow after we've broken our fast."

With that, Daenerys nodded in acknowledgment of her counselors and exited, her spymaster at her heels.

* * *

"I was under the impression that your brother was to marry Princess Myrcella," Sansa couldn't keep the suspicion out of her voice, though it seemed her paranoia amused Arianne Martell. She was a little starstruck by the woman, fascinated by the way her silks moved with each step she took. Dornish fashions truly were something else. She smirked as she waved one of her nieces away, turning to face Sansa fully. Her deep brown eyes saw through her courtesies immediately.

Despite her short height, the woman intimidated her to no end- her smile made it seem like she knew something that Sansa didn't.

"He will," Arianne responded flippantly. When she said nothing else, Sansa only felt more confused than when she first approached the woman.

"It seems a conflict of interest," Sansa remarked, crossing her arms over her chest in the process, "to name her brother a bastard, to serve the queen who plans on overthrowing him... all while your uncle sits on Joffrey's own small council. I can't help but wonder why you're here."

"Some debts take years to pay, Your Grace." Arianne's eyes danced with mirth. "Decades, even. Dorne has not forgotten what has been taken from us."

"Princess Elia," Sansa was beginning to understand now. She doubted anyone forgot the stories about the way the Dornish princess died, horrible as they were. When she lived in the capital, she often wondered if she would meet a similar end. "You plan on avenging her?”

"Tywin Lannister will answer for his crimes, Queen Sansa," a woman with braided hair snapped from beside Arianne. If Sansa's memory served her correctly, this was one of Prince Oberyn's bastard daughters. "And the lions will know the debt has been paid."

"Hush, Nym." The Princess of Dorne quieted her niece before gifting Sansa with a dangerous smile. "Rest assured, we have no quarrel with the princess. We've actually grown rather fond of her."

She made to leave when an armored man stepped out from behind Arianne. Sansa flinched back at the sight of him, immediately perceiving the armor he wore for what it was. He wasn't wearing his helm nor did he have a white cloak on, but she would be able to recognize him anywhere; his skin was sun-kissed and the leaf pin he wore glinted in the light that streamed in through the ruined walls.

"Arys," Arianne hissed as soon as he took another step towards Sansa, standing closer to her than absolutely necessary.

They were drawing a few looks now, Robb and Lord Mallister peering over at her with caution. 

When she looked back at Ser Arys Oakheart, he was falling to his knees in front of her.

He tilted his head up to look at her, eyes watery and mouth quivering as if he was entirely at her mercy.  It took Sansa a few seconds to process exactly what was happening here, absolutely bewildered that one of Joffrey's Kingsguard was kneeling in front her.

"Forgive me, my lady, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me." The knight pled to her like a zealot who had just found salvation.

She stopped him with a concerned hand to his shoulder, unsure as to why he even wanted her forgiveness. "For what crime, Ser Arys?"

He started crying softly then, squeezing his eyes shut until she removed her hand from him completely.

Had she made this worse somehow?

She looked to Arianne for help but found that the woman was glaring holes into the back of the knight's head, and when she turned to try to spot Robb or Theon, she saw an entire hall of people watching them with interest. The man wept like a child, forcing his unfocused eyes open to look at hers. Was he drunk or delusional? She couldn't tell what was wrong with him and flushed at the unwanted attention.

"I don't deserve your mercy, my lady, not after what I've done." Ser Arys cleared his throat, shifting a little on his knees. "I abandoned the king long ago, my lady. I broke my vows to the order, I abandoned the princess, I shamed myself in the worst of ways. What he made me do to you is my deepest regret, my deepest shame as a knight. Please, my lady, I know I do not deserve it but I..."

He drew his sword from his scabbard, the action prompting about a dozen of Robb's men to do the same, all lurching forward as if they thought this man would be any kind of threat to her at all.

She held a hand out toward the Northerners and ironborn who leaped to protect her in an attempt to stop them from doing anything rash.

Ser Arys' sword clattered to the ground in front of her before she could say anything. This was eerily familiar to when Lady Brienne swore herself to her and Arya at Riverrun under their mother's watchful eye, and only then did Sansa realize what he intended to do.

"I beg you to allow me to make amends for what I've done. I would protect you, now and always," his repentance was clear in his eyes from what Sansa could see. "I am yours, my queen. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New."

Sansa heard a sharp intake of breath, though she couldn't tell whether it had come from one of the spectators or from herself. She looked down at the man who'd beaten her with tears in his eyes, who'd been the only one to plead with Joffrey not to hurt her. Sansa remembered how relieved he looked when he was chosen to accompany Myrcella to Dorne. She wondered how long he had been carrying this burden.

Perhaps she should have reached forward and helped him to his feet, or just politely declined the offer in private. At that moment, she couldn't do either.

"I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table." Disbelieving murmurs rippled through the audience of lords and ladies. "And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New." The knight looked staggered as she said the words, almost as if he expected that she would order his death rather than accept his pledge of fealty. "Arise."

* * *

“They think you’ll cut my throat the moment you get the chance," Sansa remarked as her previous guards filed out of the room with the rest of Robb’s men, muttering amongst each other about what had just happened as if she wasn't there. “Tell me, ser, am I a fool for taking you into my service?”

Ser Arys remained rooted in his spot behind her. “I would never betray you, my queen. I take my oaths seriously, though it may not appear so. Joffrey was-“

”Joffrey was no king,” Sansa finished for him. “You broke no oaths to the realm. There were nearly half a dozen men claiming to be the rightful king. You simply made a choice that most men would be too cowardly to make for themselves.”

”You give me too much credit, Your Grace,” Ser Arys replied, unflinching despite the look of fury that Arianne gifted him with as she passed him on her way out.

* * *

They were sleeping together.

She realized it halfway through the feast. Sansa tried not to grit her teeth every time Robb's eyes wandered across the room to seek Daenerys out at the high table. He basked in her attention every time she returned the look, a variation of the same secretive smile exchanged between them.

There was singing and there was dancing, but neither of them paid it any mind.

Sansa clenched the stem of her goblet in her fist, glaring at the side of her brother's face in hopes that he would know he had been caught and apologize profusely for betraying her goodsister. It had been months since he'd last seen Roslin but she was about to birth his  _child_. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He loved Roslin, Sansa knew he did. At the very least, he cared for her. She saw the way he cradled her stomach before he left Riverrun, how he begged Sansa to keep her safe through her pregnancy, how he smiled at her at Sansa's wedding. He couldn't have just forgotten about her, could he?

Guilt weighed down on Sansa's heart. Did she cause this by showing him the letter about Daenerys all those weeks ago? Or by pushing Robb to marry Roslin rather than the woman he was convinced that he loved? Would this have even happened if she had just let him follow his heart the way he had done for her?

He grinned winningly at Daenerys as she raised her own chalice to her lips, her eyelids heavy as she drank. Watching them attempt to seduce each other from across the room was nauseating. Theon was jesting with Lord Piper to Sansa’s other side, just seeming relieved that the ironborn hadn't started a fight yet.

Sansa's fork scraped at the bottom of her plate as Robb continued shooting coy glances at his lover. She was two tables away and yet, he'd focused more of his attentions on her than either of the people sitting beside him. The queen's handmaidens were giggling profusely among each other, but she seemed to take no notice of it either. Daenerys lowered her gaze from Robb's, raising a bite of food to her lips as one of her companions chattered away to her.

Robb's stare was unwavering and held not a single ounce of subtlety to it. 

"I loved a maid as sweet as springtime with sunrise in her hair," a deep voice rang out, drawing Sansa's eye to the middle of the Great Hall where a Dornishman was playing the fiddle. His curly mop of dark hair sprung with each tilt of the instrument, his party cheering him on as he sang directly to Princess Arianne, the woman in question rising in her seat to begin the cycle of dancing for the night.

If she wasn't so angry, Sansa might have enjoyed the song.

Now she simply seethed to herself and poked at her food, internally rehearsing what she would say to chew Robb out once they were alone.

"I loved a maid as fair as summer with sunlight in her hair." The man continued jovially, the sound of it a little strange to Sansa's ears. All the times that it had been played at Joffrey's court, it was sung as a mournful song about lost love. Now it was being played as if it were a tune of celebration, though she supposed this was better for the setting. She stared at the crowd of mismatched lords and ladies, at least twenty people now dancing around the rambunctious musician.

"Dance with me, will you?" Theon stood up and offered his hand to her.

Momentarily, she forgot her outrage and felt nothing but mild surprise. Theon usually hated dancing, he said so himself- the steps were too repetitive for his liking. He took it up for her at their wedding feast, but she couldn't recall seeing him dance more than a handful of times since they were children.

"I might cry if you say no," Theon warned her, smirking at her as she hesitated over his hand. "It won't be a pretty sight, I have to warn you. Tears and snot everywhere. A proper commotion if you ever saw one."

She sighed resolutely and stood, using his hand to tug him close to her. Sansa channeled her previous rage into a passion that she would typically reserve for the privacy of her own rooms. She cared little about the innocence of Robb's eyes anymore. It served him right to be traumatized.

Sansa wound her arms around Theon's neck and kissed him soundly on the lips. He responded immediately and his hands dipped daringly low on her back. She lost herself in the embrace, enjoying the intimacy despite their surroundings; Sansa had always swooned over public displays of affection but those were usually more along the lines of chaste kisses to the knuckles and proclamations of great devotion, not heated kisses in a room full of drunken soldiers.

Sansa vaguely registered the gagging sounds that Robb was making to her side, but it just prompted her to deepen the kiss further. She nipped at Theon’s mouth as soon as she felt his hands squeezing her rump, reconnecting their lips to encourage him to continue groping her despite the impropriety of it all. 

"I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair," the singer made a whooping sound, one that was followed with cheeky laughter as Theon broke away from the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers.

The hall was loud and raucous and the atmosphere of the place almost made her feel like they were in Winterfell again, the lot of them celebrating a harvest feast like nothing had changed in the realm since she was a little girl with dreams that would never come to fruition.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that they were at her childhood home rather than in a haunted castle in the Riverlands.

She pecked Theon's lips once more, her nose bumping against his as they embraced.

"Seven hells, please do that somewhere else," Robb complained loudly, finally paying attention to someone other than the Dragon Queen. He was pulling a face and cringing even as he stuffed a bite of meat into his mouth, making a point to look away from them. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can stomach."

"I loved a maid as white as winter with moonglow in her hair." The singer belted from the middle of the room, likely serenading Daenerys Targaryen considering the line of song he was on. She knew she was correct by the way that the queen’s table seemed to become even rowdier at the lyric. 

Theon breathed her in for a few more seconds before guiding them to where Dacey Mormont was whirling around without a care in the world. 

He whisked her into a Riverlands dance that they had been forced to learn in their childhood. Arya had stood on top of Jon's feet, Sansa's own hands poised primly on Robb's shoulders as they were walked through each step by Septa Mordane. Jeyne had begged to learn with them and was partnered off with Theon while Beth was forced to dance with Bran, who looked like he would rather be climbing the castle walls than spend another moment dancing with a girl.

Had Rickon learned how to dance yet? The thought didn't upset her as it might have in another circumstance but instead fueled her happiness at the thought of her baby brother enjoying himself. She tried to imagine Rickon here with her, dancing along to the music like the wild child he had always been.

Sansa kept up with the fast pacing of the song as it transitioned into something just as bawdy, giggling as Theon fumbled over the steps. She held onto him tighter when another couple bumped into them, not hearing a word of whatever it was that Theon had started whispering into her ear.

She saw a flash of white from the corner of her eyes and turned her head impulsively to catch a glimpse of Daenerys briskly leaving the hall.

When Sansa glanced back at Robb's seat, it was empty.

* * *

“I’ll accompany them across the Narrow Sea myself,” Theon claimed confidently. “We can get it done within the next two moons, three at the most. The fleet’s about a hundred ships but half are with my uncle in the Westerlands. We might need the extra month.”

Daenerys analyzed his features as if looking for some sign that he was deceiving her. The four of them were sat around a wooden table in Lord Tyrion’s solar, a spread of bread and salt placed in the middle of them. “Fifty ships. Will that be enough, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion shrugged, the corners of his lips tilting upward. “With a few return trips, perhaps.”

“In return I expect you want me to support your claim to the Iron Islands,” Daenerys raised her glass of wine to her lips, taking a long sip of the drink before her eyes flicked over to Sansa who didn't partake. The stuff was too rich and sour for her liking, especially at this time of day.

“And we will support yours to the Iron Throne,” Theon confirmed with a jerky nod of his head, glancing at Sansa so that she could jump in as they planned.

“Our independence would not mean that we could not be friends to the crown, just as the North and the Iron Islands have been to one another.” Sansa kept her voice stern and unyielding. “We could bind ourselves to one another through various means, Your Grace.”

“Go on,” Daenerys revealed nothing about what she thought, her face frustratingly impassive as she urged Sansa to continue.

“We could forge alliances of trade to our mutual benefit. When winter comes, the realm will need pelts and furs from the North to survive, and the North will need to replenish their stores. Our winters are indomitable, Your Grace.” She let a smile play on her lips, unable to resist the slight dig against the foreign queen. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know that.”

Daenerys’ eyes hardened and her lips tightened the slightest bit, recognizing the insult for what it was. “I recognize the benefits of allying with the North, Lady Sansa. Most of my army has already been brought to Westeros, though. Bringing a few thousand men to these shores is not worth losing a kingdom. What do you have to offer me that I cannot get elsewhere?”

“Ships, Your Grace,” Theon cut in eagerly. “Our fleet is the stuff of legends. The royal fleet’s all but destroyed. Your Hand of the Queen saw to that when he set it ablaze on the Blackwater.”

Sansa perked up, surprised by how well he thought on his feet.

Daenerys spared Tyrion one questioning look to which he conceded. “It’s true. You will need people to rebuild the fleet once you’ve taken the throne, Your Grace. It doesn’t necessarily need to be the Greyjoys who do it. House Redwyne has a fleet of their own- the largest in Westerosi history.”

“House Redwyne, whose liege lord is the pretender’s master of ships?” Daenerys sounded irritated now, probably upset at the matter not being brought to her attention earlier. “The same lord whose mother is one of their own? Whose daughter is the Queen of Westeros?  _That_  House Redwyne? I don’t suppose they would be willing to gift us their ships out of the goodness of their hearts.”

Tyrion drew in a breath, a tad dispirited by his oversight. “They’ll bend the knee to you soon enough, Your Grace. The fleet will be at your disposal as soon as the Tyrells are defeated.”

Daenerys raised her glass back up to her lips, seeming to mull her options over. Sansa held her breath and bit her tongue, knowing better than to speak now that this seemed to be leaning in their favor. If Theon refused to bend the knee to her, he could easily make the situation far worse for her new rule. And then Robb Stark would have no choice but to stand by his sister and her husband. Then three more kingdoms would have risen up against her, throwing the country into another war and all but destroying her alliance with Robb.

“I'll need a master of ships once I take the throne,” Daenerys spoke eventually and Sansa’s heart practically jumped to her throat. “Who better than the King of the Iron Islands?”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion warned, eyes wide as this spiraled out of his control. “The Greyjoys have a history of rebelling against the crown. It might be prudent to-”

“Then we’ll give them a reason not to,” Daenerys interrupted with an arrogant smirk. “You will be my master of ships, Theon Greyjoy. You will sit on my small council and oversee the rebuilding of the royal fleet within the… first five years of my reign.”

“Your  _Grace_ ,” Tyrion cut in again, his voice more forceful than the last time he intervened.

“Five years is ample time to build a fleet, isn’t it, Lord Tyrion?” Daenerys fixed her advisor with a fierce glare as if to remind him of his station. “Though I suppose we could extend it, so long as  _King_  Theon proves his commitment to forging a long-lasting alliance with the Crown. There’s hardly anyone more qualified for the position in my ranks, from what I've gathered.”

“Yes,” Tyrion eventually gritted out unhappily as he reached for his own goblet of wine, swallowing a large gulp of it as if it was water. “Your Grace.”

Theon seemed to hesitate, his eyes flicking over to Sansa nervously before settling back on Daenerys. “I am their king, Your Grace. I can’t rule Pyke from King’s Landing, just as you couldn’t rule the Seven Kingdoms from beyond the Wall.”

She clicked her tongue. “How disappointing.”

Just like that, it seemed that all the pieces to this puzzle were falling apart again.

Sansa glanced between them before blurting out the first thought that came to mind. “What about a proxy? We could send someone else to King's Landing in Theon’s stead,” Sansa suggested, her thoughts coming together one at a time to form something that almost made sense. “He has two trusted uncles, a cousin who captains his own longship, and his sister. I'm sure that one of them would be worthy of the post.”

Theon was staring at Sansa with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing as if he were a fish. Daenerys’ eyes darted between them with suspicion.

“And who would you have advise me?” She asked, her expression yet again controlled into one of apathy. “Who do you trust above the others?”

“My sister, Asha." Theon eventually croaked out, smiling just the slightest bit as he explained his decision. Despite his false smile, he looked as if he thought his sister would jump out from beneath the desk and strangle him for naming her. "She's thrice the captain I'll ever be."

"And yet the ironborn chose you to lead them. Why is that?" Daenerys was toying with him, Sansa realized as the queen leaned forward and tore off a piece of bread, dipping it into salt as she waited for his response. Theon, of course, fell for the bait.

"Not sure, really.” He grinned. “You’ll have to ask them.”

"He's honest, I'll give him that," Dany commented to Tyrion as if Theon were not even there, her brows raised to the skies. “If a bit bold.”

Tyrion looked just as defeated as he had when the Redwyne fleet first came up in the discussion. "You already know my thoughts on the matter, Your Grace."

She regarded them again, an odd gleam in her eyes. “It gladdens me to hear that you trust your sister so much. My brother never would have trusted me with such a task when he lived, though I suppose that's why I am a queen and he is buried in the ground. We may be allies, Theon Greyjoy, but only if you meet my terms.”

“And what are your terms, Daenerys Targaryen?” Theon asked, not quite teasing her but coming awfully close- close enough that Tyrion huffed with indignance at the gall he had. His expression sobered a bit as he waited for the Dragon Queen to string her offer together.

“You will remain by my side as my master of ships until the fleet is rebuilt. Whether that happens in one year or five is up to you. You'll reside in the capital as a guest to the Crown and sit on my council. Your sister sounds perfectly capable of ruling in your stead while you serve me. Once the job is done, you may return to the Iron Islands. I expect you to respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms once the secession is complete. No more reaving, roving, raiding, or raping.” She stood up in her seat and held her arm out to Theon, her eyes sparkling as she said the words. “This is my final proposal. Do we have an understanding?”

“I would serve you?" Theon’s mouth was set in a hard line, uncertainty clear on his face.

“Not in the literal sense,” Daenerys reasoned, her arm still extended towards him.

“But I’d be your bannerman,” he followed up dubiously. "Your servant."

“You would be a loyal ally of the Crown, addressed as the King of the Iron Islands. Your country's affairs will be left to your discretion and I will never make an attempt to take it from you. You will be the king that saved the Iron Isles from dragonfire, Theon Greyjoy.” Silence seemed to resonate through the room before Daenerys continued, her tone giving off a warning of its own. “It’s a generous offer, one that I recommend you take.”

Sansa didn’t want to know what would happen if he rejected it. As much as she dreaded living in King’s Landing for any amount of time, she couldn’t tell whether the Dragon Queen was serious about unleashing her beasts on them or not. What was a few years in the capital compared to tearing the realm apart?

She didn’t have too long to contemplate over it, as Theon nodded once and gripped Daenerys’ arm with his own. As simple as that, it seemed.

“And you, Sansa Stark?”

Sansa’s eyes shot up to meet Daenerys’ pensive stare, a little surprised -and admittedly, a little touched- that her opinion counted at all. She grasped the arm offered to her, blue eyes meeting violet as the pact was sealed.

* * *

He anchored himself to Sansa with his hands at her waist, murmuring a string of words to her that she couldn’t quite comprehend.

“You know you don’t have to come with me,” he drew in a deep breath. “I would never force you to go back there, Sansa. Never.”

“Look at me,” she commanded, her fingers drawing circles around the nape of his neck. “I won’t leave you there alone, not when I’ve already lost so much in that city. I’m coming with you. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

He looked like he might cry. 

“Sansa,” he choked out, holding her close to him. She tilted her head to the side, pressing her lips against his soundly. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

* * *

There was a storm brewing outside, the rain coming down on the castle with a vengeance.

Sansa was too distressed at the thought of returning to King’s Landing to sleep but tried nevertheless. She twisted in the bed and tried not to picture Joffrey presenting her with Theon’s severed head. Somehow her picture of Joffrey vanished and in his place stood Martyn Lannister, blood gushing out of his neck as he smiled wickedly at her.  _The Lannisters always pay their debts_ , he chortled in a raggedy voice unlike his own, tossing the head at Sansa’s feet as if it were a ball. 

She lurched forward, hands clutching at her throat as she tried to get a sense for her surroundings.

She was still in her smallclothes and Theon was bent over the rickety writing desk close by to the bed, still penning what must have been his fiftieth letter that night. He didn’t notice her stirring, fully enraptured in whatever it was that he was writing to his sister. 

A knock came at the door and she frowned.

Were they expecting someone? When she clambered out of bed with bleary eyes, her mind ran wild thinking about who could be disturbing them. For a mad moment, Sansa seized up, her childhood fear of ghosts suddenly returning to her as she remembered exactly what castle it was that they were occupying. Harrenhal was notorious for its ghosts and ghouls. Theon made no move to leave his table, presumably just deciding to ignore the guest at their doors. 

Another noisy knock came from outside.

Sansa shoved her fears to the side so that she could grab at the robe laid across her mirrored dresser. She slipped it on over her smallclothes and tied it at the front before approaching the far end of her chambers, fully prepared to ward off any supernatural threats if it came to that. 

There wasn't anyone there. Sansa's brows furrowed for a moment before something was pushing at her knees. 

She screeched at the sudden sensation, almost tripping over her own feet as Robb Stark’s direwolf nuzzled up against her.

He was whimpering and circling around her legs, evidently afraid of the sound of thunder just as Lady had been once.

She hushed the wolf’s cries and bent down, her arms wrapping around Robb's enormous pet comfortingly. He was huge -even bigger than when she'd last seen him- but his sad golden eyes endeared him to Sansa just as if he were just a pup again.

"Don't tell me Robb's been neglecting you," she cooed, laughing when he overpowered her in an instant and shoved his way into the room. She giggled when the direwolf bound forward, leaping onto the bed as if he belonged there. “Grey Wind!”

She saw no issue with harboring Robb's wolf for the night, even if it meant that Theon wouldn't fit on the bed. 

"Sansa, be careful," Theon warned her, his forehead creased with concern. "I've seen that wolf with men's limbs in its mouth."

She ignored him and flung herself towards the foot of the bed, unable to suppress her laughter when Grey Wind flicked his tail into her face. 

* * *

It seemed that each meeting of the war council divided their forces more.

Sansa could understand the logistics of warfare but the concept of a battlefield was just that to her- a concept. For days, the Dornish bickered with the Northmen and the Riverlords with the Targaryen commanders and for days, she attempted to stay as engaged as possible to no avail.

When Daenerys announced that Bolton banners had been spotted just west of Deep Den, it seemed that the decision had been made for them. 

* * *

She was kneeling before the weirwood in Harrenhal's gardens, staring into its gnarled face in hope that it would bring her something. Would the gods hear any of her prayers if she chose to say them aloud? Would they even care? Her prayers didn't stop Ilyn Payne from advancing towards her father with his own greatsword in hand, nor did it stop Joffrey from mounting his head on a spike to torment her with. 

"The gods have no mercy," she whispered to herself as she reached forward and pressed her hand against the bark of the tree. Its horrible bleeding eyes were covered with her palm, but it seemed to reverberate under her touch. Was it trying to tell her something? 

She ignored the crunch of leaves behind her, resigned to her unwanted company when she heard a shuffling sound beside her.

"Roose Bolton is dead," Robb's voice was hard. Her hand slid down from where it was flattened against the tree, falling back to the dirt uselessly. 

"That's good news, isn't it?" She inquired, wondering if he truly mourned the man after all the trouble he caused him. Lord Bolton wasn't particularly kind from what she remembered, but Robb may have seen a different side to him. If the Boltons were defeated, then they wouldn't have anything to worry about on that front.

Robb was silent for so long that she couldn't be sure that he heard her.

"Roose Bolton died three days after I left Lannisport," he sighed, sitting on a log in front of her. It was becoming clear that he came here to speak to her, not to pray to the Old Gods. In truth, Sansa hadn't seen Robb pray since they were children. "He never betrayed us."

"Then who did?" Sansa shot back, the events of the war beginning to make more sense to her now. If Roose Bolton was dead, someone had to be telling his armies to pillage and torment the smallfolk that he was charged to protect. He didn't have any heirs anymore, Sansa knew that for a fact. Domeric Bolton had died when she was only twelve years old, more than old enough to understand the rumors that took hold about the nature of his death.

"Ramsay Snow," was the curt response she received. She blinked, trying to make sense of the man's actions in light of his father's death. "He said his father was poisoned by his enemies. That he'll take Riverrun and put every Tully to the sword if we don't yield and surrender ourselves to his justice."

"Is he mad?" Sansa's face contorted in indignation. Why would they yield to a bastard with an army less than a sixth the size of their own?

"Probably," Robb snickered. "You've heard about what he's done up North. We all have. He'll answer for his crimes soon enough, Sansa. I just... wanted..."

"To talk about it?" Sansa filled in the blanks, still a little angry with Robb despite the olive branch extended to her.

"Aye," he wrung his hands together, peering up at the tree as if it held the answers to all of his questions. "I had more to say before, I swear I did."

They sat there for a little while longer in comfortable silence.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," Robb spoke suddenly. "I'm sorry that it had to be you. Arya told me that it... that you didn't take it well. When you had to execute them.”

"I did my duty," she shot back defensively, knowing precisely what he was referring to. "I did exactly what you told me to do."

"I never should have asked it of you," Robb's shoulders slumped and she felt his eyes on her. She couldn't look at him, not when she knew that doing so would prompt an onslaught of tears. "It wasn't right. It may have been a war but... it was my burden to bear, Sansa. And you bore it for me."

Her stomach rolled every time she did so much as look at Lord Tyrion, every glimpse of green eyes an unhinging reminder of what she had done. It was no better than how the Lannisters treated her, or what her father would have been forced to do to Theon in another set of circumstances. 

Those boys were put to death with the knowledge that their father chose a castle over them, and the thought of it made her unspeakably sad. 

"I cared about them,' she averted her eyes from the tree, feeling like admitting such a thing was betraying her father's memory. She wasn't sure what disgusted her more, that she mourned them despite their parentage, or that she felt guilty for mourning them at all. "They were Lannisters and I cared about them."

"No," Robb initiated physical contact with her, their hands just barely touching. "They were boys. It isn't your fault, Sansa. It's mine."

She finally faced him, the pair of them wrought with guilt that they did not know how to cope with. Sansa couldn't give him her forgiveness for this, at least not yet, but she could offer him the promise of one. They hugged underneath a branch of red weirwood leaves, both of them wishing for Winterfell. 

* * *

"Tell me a story."

Theon's head was on her lap, a contented smile on his face as she ran her fingers through his hair. Sansa spun his curls around in different patterns, no real method to her machinations. It was a rare moment of quiet away from all of the lords and ladies and kings and queens. "Which one would you like to hear?" 

"The one you always liked," he sighed, his lashes fluttering as a light breeze blew toward them. "About Duncan the Small and the girl he gave up a kingdom for." 

"Jenny of Oldstones?" She smoothed his hair down against his forehead with a frown. "That's a sad story, Theon."

"Then tell me a happy one," Theon murmured back at her, kissing her wrist fleetingly when she looked up at the archway above them. They must have been quite the sight; the King and Queen of the Iron Islands, sitting together on the patchy ground in the yard as if they were two commoners in love.

Her navy skirts danced against the yellow-green of the grass beneath her, a natural growth of flowers scattered around them. It was beautiful in its own way.  _So is he_ , Sansa thought to herself as her gaze roamed over his face. It struck her then that there must be so much that she didn't know about him yet, so much that she could learn with time. What was it that her mother said about true love? Stone by stone, built over the years to forge something lasting.

She wanted more time with him, more time to do  _this_  rather than say hurried goodbyes to each other on battlefields and outside of castles. She wanted to know whether he favored scrambled eggs or omelets, and if he enjoyed black olives or green olives, and what cities he wanted to visit before they grew old and grey together.

"I can't think of one," she admitted, trying desperately to conjure one up that didn't end with death or dragonfire. Even the story of Durran the Storm King and his goddess lover Elenei ended with the deaths of thousands of men. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" His laughter was a beautiful sound, high and gentle whenever they were alone. He closed his eyes once more when she started carding through his hair with her fingers, his grin stretching across his face as if he was a dog having his ear scratched. "I know one."

"I'm listening," she beamed down at him bemusedly. When he paused, she tried to wager a guess at what story he would tell her. Perhaps it would be of the Grey King and the mermaid he'd fallen in love with, since she remembered hearing about it when she was a child once. Had Theon been the one to tell her that story? It was the only love story she had ever heard about the ironborn, a fact that she hoped to remedy with time.

"It starts in Winterfell, in the heart of the North." Theon started, fully committed to telling the tale the way that the storytellers in the winter town square would always do. Sansa hadn't listened to the majority of them, uninterested in tales of the Others and giant ice spiders, though her sister always begged to hear more from Old Nan afterward. Now she wished she had paid more attention. "It's springtime and every lord and lady in the realm have come to the castle."

"Mhm?" Sansa urged him to continue, calmed by the sound of birds chirping around them. There were no dragons around to spoil this for her, the Targaryen queen having taken them out for a hunt early that morning. Robb and a host of men accompanied her, looking for some deer or elk to serve for supper.

"There's a princess," he smirked.

"Of course."

"And a pirate."

"Oh really?" 

"The princess was the most beautiful woman in all the land, with..." he tapped his chin as if he hadn't spent the past however-many minutes thinking this part of the story up. "Let's say she has red hair and blue eyes."

She couldn't contain her snort of laughter when Theon suddenly sat up, his unruly hair sticking out in different directions.

"I'm trying to tell a story here, Sansa." He took her amusement in stride, twining their hands together before lifting them to his heart. "The princess and the pirate fall madly in love but there's an evil band of lords who try to keep them apart. No one wants her to marry the pirate because he's got no lands, no dowry, no armies... the pirate's got nothing to offer his lady love except for his heart. And his good looks, of course, but that's neither here nor there." 

"And what do they do?" Sansa eyed his lips, warmth blooming in her chest as Theon stared at her in that  _way_  he always did. 

He adjusted his position so that he was laying on her again, propping himself up with an elbow on the grass. When he looked up at her, she felt as giddy as she had when they were at the Inn of the Kneeling Man, arms wound around each other with the taste of blueberry pie on her lips.

"They run away together in the night and marry in secret," he squeezed her hand once. "Everyone looks for them, searching Westeros far and wide to try and track them down. The entire realm tries to catch them, and no one tried harder than the evil lords who hated them for committing the crime of falling in love."

She wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss him silly. "Does anyone ever find them?"

"No," he smiled softly at her. "No, they don't."

They stared at each other for a moment longer. 

"That's a lovely story, Theon."

* * *

"I'll be back soon," Sansa assured Theon as a warm set of lips pressed themselves against her forehead.

It seemed that they had said goodbye to one another enough times to last a lifetime.

As much as she longed to stay with him through whatever would happen to the country's capital, Sansa had to return to Riverrun for Arya. It wasn't safe there, not now that Ramsay Snow was threatening to sack the castle and flay her sister alive along with all of her family who remained there. It seemed better to the alternative of waiting behind in Maidenpool and twiddling her thumbs while she waited fruitlessly for her family to return to her.

Almost all of them would be riding westward by the time the dawn broke. The Dornish were to take the Goldroad in anticipation of the siege of King's Landing while the Dothraki would join Robb's forces to meet the Boltons in battle. Theon had to return to his fleet on the Bay of Crabs, awaiting further instruction from Daenerys.

"I know," Another kiss was peppered onto her nose before Theon drew back, grinning at her as if they were merely parting ways to run mundane errands. "Try not to have too much fun without me."

* * *

She rode with the Stark entourage, settled comfortably on top of her horse as she took her mother's place at Robb's side. Her teeth chattered as the sky darkened, unused to riding at such a pace while it still rained. Robb tried to feign ignorance when his squires piled layers upon layers of fur onto Sansa's mount, shrugging when she threw him an accusing look. She felt a tad guilty for the extravagance when she wrapped the pelt around her, but at least she was warm.

* * *

They had been marching for three days when a scout rode toward them. "Your Grace! Lannister forces sighted at the Red Fork!"

"How many?" Robb stopped the man in his tracks, staring off over the hill as if he expected an army to ambush them at any moment. 

"Forty-thousand by the looks of it." To his credit, the messenger didn't tremble as he delivered the bad news to Robb. "What are your orders, Your Grace?"

"We set up camp." Robb declared at the men who were watching him in anticipation of what he would say. He turned to the Greatjon with a stern look that almost rivaled Jon Snow's in grimness. Sansa wondered how he was faring at Castle Black, feeling a little pang in her heart once she realized that his last letter to her went unanswered. "Ready the men, Lord Umber. It seems that we've got company. Messenger," he addressed the boy gruffly. "Has Queen Daenerys been informed?"

"No, Your Grace." The scout craned his head up to look at Robb, barely eleven by the look of him. He stared at her brother in such an awestruck way that it bordered on hero-worship. Sansa eyed the thin blade hanging off of the lowborn boy's hip, her forehead creasing at the thought of someone so young riding into the thick of battle. Surely he wouldn't be sent out to fight, would he? Gods, he had to be around Rickon's age if not younger.

Robb cracked a smile at the boy, leaning over his horse's mane to ruffle the boy's strawberry-blond hair. "Go on then, Ryon. You have your task."

Ryon soluted at her brother quickly before scampering off, leaving them behind in the dust in his rush to complete his assignment. Sansa watched the boy dash off and looked back at Robb with affectionate eyes. He would be a good father once the war was won. When they were back North and the Lannisters and Targaryen Queen were forgotten, once he saw Roslin with their son or daughter in her arms... he would remember what was truly important to him, she was sure of it.

The situation still ailed her, though, as did thoughts of her lady mother. She had seen her mother for her wrath and her hatefulness and jealousy and sadness, more than any of her siblings ever had. From the time she was a young girl, she noticed the way Lady Catelyn would bite down on her lip and blink back tears whenever her father would express affection or favor toward Jon. It wasn't fair of Sansa to join her mother in shunning her half-brother and perhaps she would never be able to remedy that mistake to him, but her heart broke at the thought of Roslin -sweet, caring, doting Roslin- being shamed in such a way.

"How many men do we have, Robb?" Sansa drew her brother from his thoughts, her voice measured despite the panic budding inside her chest. She didn't know much about strategizing, but the numbers the scout gave Robb seemed far from insignificant. 

He gave her a look that seemed to say  _not enough_  but rubbed his horse's neck soothingly. "We'll make do."

* * *

Sansa wondered if she was fated to die here in High Heart, alone and defenseless. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth. She was huddled into her throne of blankets with a bowl of soup pressed between her hands, watching as the men and women left behind in the camp went about their business. Ser Arys sharpened his sword from the corner of the tent, sitting on an upside-down crate while trying determinedly not to make conversation with Lord Cleftjaw. 

The two had been with her since the army left, here to defend her in case something went awry. She had eight men in her guard, more than were absolutely necessary but Theon and Robb had insisted on ensuring her safety. About half of them were Northern, and the other half was split between ironborn and Frey men. 

There was anxious energy in the air. Since Robb and Daenerys marched their fighting men out toward the eastern Red Fork, everyone had been awaiting some news about their fate. They couldn't see beyond the hill above them other than the two dragons circling the air far off; they nearly looked like insects from the distance.

"I've heard it said that there are protective spells here, spells that protect its inhabitants from harm," a voice piped up from the entrance of her tent and Sansa tried not to flinch at the sound. Ser Arys glared up at him warningly but made no move to cut him down. "Do you think it'll do us any good if my father's forces prevail?"

Sansa appraised Lord Tyrion with his bushy beard and dirty curls, smelling the wine on him from several meters away.

"He's your father," she shot him a scathing look. "If any of us are to survive a slaughter, it's you."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," he chuckled to himself as he invited himself in, sitting on Robb's trunk of clothes as he spoke. "He's not exactly happy with me."

She scoffed at the understatement. With one son in chains and the other trying to depose their family from the throne, she supposed any father in his right mind would be rather displeased. Tyrion leaned back, eyes twinkling. "How did you manage to escape the city? I've been wondering for quite some time."

Sansa lifted the cup up to her mouth and slurped at the lukewarm liquid as politely as she could manage. "Ser Mandon lost me in the riot. I was cornered by a group of men in a hovel but Theon managed to rescue me before anything happened. He had a dinghy on the Blackwater and a ship waiting farther out." Tyrion was watching her carefully, kicking his feet against the bottom of the chest. "We sailed to Maidenpool and rode to Riverrun from there. And then-"

"You fell madly in love?" Tyrion jested, a tinge of bitterness to his voice even as he laughed. "I can't say I understand your attachment to the boy any better than-" he seemed to catch himself in the middle of something he didn't mean to say, but he shook it off before she could linger on it. "Better him than Joffrey, though I can't say that accounts much for your taste. I do recall him making a great number of jokes at my expense at Winterfell."

She felt defensiveness spike within her at the affront. "He's grown since then. We were children."

"Yes, of course you were." Tyrion placated her before changing the subject. "You'll be pleased to know that Ser Mandon perished on the battlefield."

"A pity," Sansa didn't have much more to offer than that.

"Not particularly," Tyrion sighed, likely wishing that he'd brought something to busy himself with now that the conversation had dried up. "He gifted me with this scar on the night of Stannis Baratheon's siege. Turned on me and tried to have me killed at my sister's orders. Or Joffrey's. I can never be quite sure with them."

She recalled how Joffrey would torment Tyrion in the capital, goading him in the middle of court for his own entertainment. It was nothing compared to what he would do to Sansa, but she supposed it was the worst treatment he could get away with when it concerned his own uncle.

"Is that why you chose to leave King's Landing?" Sansa asked, honestly curious as to how Tyrion had gone from sitting on Joffrey's small council to being the Dragon Queen's most trusted advisor. She would have asked him in Harrenhal but it seemed like he scarcely left Daenerys Targaryen's side. 

Tyrion lowered his chin and averted his gaze as if the memory pained him. " _Chose_  to leave. A gentle way to put it."

"Didn't you?" She raised a brow. "We haven't heard much from within the city since Margaery Tyrell became Queen."

"Ah, Queen Margaery," Tyrion smacked his lips together. "She seems to take as much pleasure from thwarting my sister's schemes as I do. It's a shame that she's on the wrong side of this war. For all of our differences, I quite like her. We could have used a mind like hers in our ranks, not to mention her father's armies."

Sansa was not in the least bit interested in hearing about the new queen. "You were saying?"

"I didn't leave then, no, but I should have." Tyrion sighed wistfully as if whatever he was daydreaming about was just out of his grasp. "It's a long story, my lady."

"We have nothing but time," Sansa countered. "If you don't want to tell it, I won't force you."

"Another day perhaps," he hopped off of the surface, raising a non-existent chalice up to her as if he were toasting to surviving through the night.

* * *

For nearly two hours, she waited on a raven or a messenger or a scout- anything that would indicate to her that her fate had been decided.

Eventually, a raven flew onto the post hastily jammed into the ground when the army had first left High Heart. 

 _Dark wings, dark words_.

Sansa couldn't put her worries to rest, not until she unrolled the scroll with shaking hands.

* * *

Nothing could have prepared her for the mayhem that greeted her when she rode to the Red Fork, galloping so fast that it only took her a half-hour to arrive.

The battlefield was in ruins, looking nothing like the muddy marshes of the Riverlands that she had grown used to over the past couple of years. Everything was either in flames or blackened with dragonfire, ash fluttering through the air like snowfall.

This wasn't a battlefield; it was a graveyard. 

Charred bodies were crumpled all around the field, horses and half-burnt men caught in the chaos of the battle's aftermath.

Sansa could hear the screeching of the Dothraki from miles away, noting that they were all rearing on their horses and swinging their arakhs around in triumph. They were riding away from the battlefield, though they remained nearby.

The Northerners and Riverlords told a different story; they were haggard and covered with blood, horror and mystification both somehow dancing on their faces. The men held each other up and a blend of Lannister and Northern corpses littered the field, red flames fading into black soot.

Daenerys Targaryen was standing in the middle of it all, as stunning and frightening as death itself. 

Dirt scuffed the queen's cheeks, and the strands of silver hair that escaped her elaborate braids framed her angelic face. Her scaled armor was nearly melted off, the reddish silver of the metalwork seeming to merge against her body as a dragon's would.

Her largest dragon roared behind her, his tail curving around his mother protectively.

She was unperturbed at the sound, utterly unafraid of the annihilation that accompanied the beast's every breath. 

The wind was knocked out from beneath Sansa as she clung to her horse, frozen in place at the sight before her.

What had happened? This wasn't the plan. The dragons weren't supposed to come into play at all, let alone in such a way that seemed to destroy everything in their paths. If one dragon could cause this much havoc, what would three of them be able to achieve?

She didn't dare move, her eyes scanning over the singed corpses on the battlefield.

There were so many of them that their bodies looked like rocks and stone from a distance, entirely unrecognizable as men and women in their current state.

Robb stumbled forward from his ranks, limping and clutching at the grievous wounds on his shoulder. He propped himself up with his longsword, making his way towards the Dragon Queen from across the battlefield. She wanted to scream at him not to get any closer to her, to keep himself from danger, to do anything except approach the woman who could end his life with a carelessly murmured word. Then she saw his face.

Blind loyalty, devotion, reverence.

He was amazed by what she had done here.

The realization made Sansa's stomach clench painfully, her hands tightening on her horse's reins so that she wouldn't rush forward and take him far away from this woman's influence. It made her sick to see how he was looking at her, worshiping her every movement with his eyes.

Robb staggered over the ashy terrain, stepping carefully over the bodies of his friends and enemies as he approached her. He dropped his helm on the ground and for a moment, Sansa was terrified that he would bend the knee to her. The rational part of her mind knew that Robb would never compromise the Northern cause, not after giving so much up for its survival. Nothing about the look on his face seemed lucid, though- he wasn't thinking in this state.

He stood before Daenerys Targaryen, blood pouring from a wound on his cheek and his sword planted firmly into the ground.

The black dragon screeched behind them and only then did Sansa notice Grey Wind hovering behind Robb protectively, covered in blood that was most assuredly not his own.

The queen smiled and for once it wasn't the subdued, smug smirk that Sansa had grown used to seeing over the past week in Harrenhal. This was a genuine smile, bright and hopeful, caring and earnest. Her smile was like the sun, so blinding that even Sansa faltered for a moment. It was perplexing and panic-inducing, to see such a beautiful sight coming from a woman who had just brought upon so much death. It was unnatural, no matter how gorgeous it was.

Daenerys cupped Robb's cheeks with both hands and swiped a thumb over his cheekbone adoringly. He leaned against her, one hand settling on her waist and the other on the hilt of his sword. Robb dipped forward to rest his forehead against hers, their eyes locked in a gaze far too intimate for the setting. They didn't kiss, but somehow that made it worse.

It looked like a scene from every love song Sansa had ever heard. 

This was a twisted mirroring of Aegon the Conquerer and Torrhen Stark. Nothing good ever came from a union between their two houses and yet, here they stood. Sparks of fire flew around them and Sansa couldn't do anything but watch.

* * *

"Messenger came for you," Erich Botley dawdled up onto Sea Song, empty-handed despite the news he came to share. Theon lept down from where he was assisting a few men in changing the sail of the ship, rubbing his reddened hands on his trousers as he waited for his crewman to speak. "Tywin Lannister's dead."

Rodrik Harlaw didn't look up from his book when he responded to the news. "That was quick."

Erich swiped the pint of ale that Todric was sipping on before he retreated below deck to forage for some food, gulping the remainder of the drink down before he broke the news. "The Lannister army burned, Greyjoy." Courtesies didn't matter as much among the ironborn and so Theon rarely took it personally when his men addressed him by name. "The Dragon Queen roasted 'em alive, the Boltons too. Nothing's left of the lot now except for ash and dirt."

"Roasted them? With her dragons?" Theon repeated incredulously, recalling just how insistent she had been about  _not_  using the beasts in battle.

Maron's son shrugged once. "The boy said Robb Stark's forces got overwhelmed soon enough, backed into a trap and about to be put to the slaughter when the Targaryen bitch rode in on her creature an' razed 'em to the ground. She'll be flying back to Dragonstone soon, wanted us to get ready for the siege. Said we've gotta get our sorry asses out of the bay and into the Blackwater."

It was a lot of information to process at once.

"And before ye ask," Erich made a lewd gesture with his tongue. "Your rock wife's well and good. Still alive, unhurt, all that shite."

Theon's face broke out into a grin. "Did you hear that, boys?" Everyone in the vicinity stared at their king, eager to find out if there was new land to plunder. It had been a while since the battle at Lannisport and they were thirsting for a good battle, he could tell. "We're about to start the greatest fucking siege of our time!"

Excitement brewed among his men as they realized the weight of what Theon was saying. For so long, the ironborn had been nothing but raiders; now, the kraken would stand beside the wolf, the fish, and the dragon to see the lions meet their end. "It's time to pay the iron price for true, men. What is dead may never die!"

The chorus of the words back at him made Theon feel powerful.

When they set sail mere hours later, he tried to imagine the Red Keep falling, its bricks crumbling to the ground as the queen's dragons bathed the city in fire and blood. Joffrey would shit himself at the sight of the realm's armies coming together to yank him off his throne, and Theon couldn't help his impish smile at the thought. Lord Eddard would be avenged before the moon was up, he would make sure of it.

* * *

Arya was gone by the time she reached Riverrun. 

"She took your horse in the night, the sooty one," her grand-uncle explained to her heavily as the remaining Bolton prisoners left alive from the battle were dragged down to the dungeons. There weren't many of them, but Ramsay Snow was among the men. Daenerys had her men escort them to Riverrun to face the Tully's justice in an act of good faith that Sansa assumed was an attempt to win them over. "Made off with nearly all my coin and plenty of food from the kitchens."

"I've got half my men looking for her, Sansa." He assured her, almost as if he could sense her distress. "We'll find her soon enough."

No, Sansa thought hotly, Arya wouldn't be found unless she wanted to be. She ran away- from her pending marriage, from her responsibilities, from the war, from her family.

 _I would have protected you_ , Sansa wanted to scream. She would have seen Arya's betrothal broken within a year's time if her sister only had the patience to wait. She prayed that Arya knew what she was doing.

When she closed her eyes and fell asleep in her old chambers, she dreamt of Nymeria running through the woods, larger and wilder than she remembered, with Arya racing at her side, flowers wound through her hair like a nymph from the storybooks. 

* * *

Edmure was a shell of his former self, recoiling from her touch when she moved to hug him.

He looked wretched, with his hair grown long and skin discolored into an odd pale yellow hue, looking more like a dead man than most of the corpses Sansa had seen in her lifetime. He had large bags under his eyes and smelled foul, a sure sign that he hadn't bathed since he was first taken captive at Lannisport. He was unrecognizable, even with the trout emblazoned on his tunic.

He mumbled to himself more than he ever spoke to any of his family, seemingly off in a world of his own. 

"What's happened to him?" Sansa asked the Blackfish on her third evening at the castle, finally expressing her thoughts when Edmure shuffled out of the room in the odd twitching way that he seemed to do everything nowadays.

"The bastards flayed him," her uncle ground out unhappily. "Took his hand, two of his fingers from the other. His neck and chest were skinned like he was a deer and not my brother's only boy," he pushed his plate away from him, anger settling on his features. "I should have been there, not Edmure. I told the king to leave me at Lannisport but the fool insisted. Trust me with this command, he said, the idiot boy he is. If I'd have fought harder... I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."

She couldn't imagine anything of the sort being done to another living person.

"Daenerys Targaryen burned them alive," Sansa whispered, carving into her carrot with vigor though her appetite was all but gone.

"Aye." Uncle Brynden turned his glum gaze back to her resignedly. "And it's a good thing she did."

"How can you say that?" She heard her voice climbing to a higher pitch than necessary. "She  _burned_  them alive."

"Better them than us," the Blackfish snapped. "You didn't see what was happening out there, niece. Absolute massacre. They had us outnumbered by near to eight thousand men. Your brother would be dead right now if it weren't for her. I'd be dead, you'd be dead, we'd all be in the ground. She did what was necessary, ugly as it might have been." He lodged a piece of meat into his fork, "as far as I'm concerned, she saved our bloody lives."

* * *

Brynden had just put a dozen Bolton men to death when Sansa brought it up to him.

She needed to leave soon, though the prospect made her feel as if she was turning her back on her own family. Family, Duty, Honor were her words as much as Winter is Coming were. She supposed she had a new set of words to add to her repertoire as well, but couldn't for the life of her begin to decipher an optimistic reading of We Do Not Sow. Perhaps Theon could come up with one for her.

"Go, Sansa," he allowed her with a gentle hand to her shoulder. "There's nothing more you can do for Edmure, not anytime soon."

"My mother-" Sansa started fiercely before her chin was tipped upward by her uncle. He was fonder of her than most, looking at her with a muted respect that he didn't give just anyone. For all of the pain that this war brought her, she was glad that she had gotten a chance to get to know him. "She needs to know about Uncle Edmure. She'll want to come here to see him. I think she could... she could help him. And Arya..."

"Let me handle that, Sansa," the Blackfish released her and held his arms out for a hug for possibly the first time ever. She embraced him tightly, knowing it could be years before they saw each other yet. "I'll miss you, girl. You've made me proud, Sansa. Grown into a stronger woman than most would dare to dream."

"I'll miss you too, Uncle Brynden," she squeezed her eyes shut and hugged him tighter, not wanting to let go just yet. "I'll visit as often as I can."

"Good." He extracted himself from the hug and nodded at her as if to confirm that she would be welcome at Riverrun. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

"And you think they left together?" Sansa inquired as Autumn clip-clopped down the cobbled path aimlessly. She wished she could be a horse sometimes, all beauty and not a care in the world. She had threaded flowers through the horse's auburn mane the last time they stopped close to Stone Hedge. When one of Theon's men scoffed at the sight, she jested about his insecurity with his own masculinity, prompting a hearty laugh from Theon's honorary uncle and a proclamation that there was 'steel in her veins'- Sansa accepted the validation with grace, making a point to pick more yellow and blue flowers along the way to create a flower-crown for the horse. She loved this mare, though she was still furious that Arya had made off with Maegor. "Her and the blacksmith?"

"Gendry," Brienne corrected lightly from atop her white steed, still down on herself for sleeping while Catelyn's youngest daughter fled in the night. Sansa knew that her presence wouldn't have made a difference to Arya, not when she was determined to see something done. "I don't think it, I know it. There were two horses stolen from the stables, my queen, and enough food to feed a small army. Her friends were tight-lipped about it, all except for the cook's apprentice."

Hot Pie. She recalled how the boy would panic at even a vaguely-angry look thrown his way, a little daft but good-hearted all the same. "And he told you?"

"Yes," Brienne responded, staring off into the distance as if Arya would leap out of the bushes and greet them. "He didn't know where they were headed but said they left together.” A moment passed. “I have failed the oath I took to your mother, Your Grace, I recognize that. Thank you for allowing me to continue guarding you."

Sansa looked at the woman as if she were touched in the head. Her brows were furrowed and Sansa could pick out a few of her racing thoughts from her expression- her concerns about Arya's virtue, her self-loathing at missing the signs in front of her, her feelings of unworthiness at being permitted to continue to serve, her worry that she would lose another Stark girl of her own fault, her unwillingness to be forgiven for her errors...

"You've done nothing but demonstrate your loyalty to my family time and time again, Lady Brienne." Sansa turned her smile to her guardian, soft and inviting. The woman's face seemed to crumble under Sansa's stare, each word registering like a blow to her stomach. "I don't fault you for what happened to my sister. She chose to leave because she wanted an end to her betrothal. You couldn't have known that she would flee, not after months of staying put."

"I should have known," Brienne countered stubbornly, unwilling to let Sansa absolve her of her guilt. "I won't fail you again, Your Grace."

Ser Arys lingered behind them, jesting with Ser Patrek Vance and Theon’s honorary uncle with all of the charm of a Southron knight. He still looked sullen at times, likely thinking of Princess Arianne. He hadn't denied the specifics of their romantic relationship when Tyrion alluded to it in her tent just days prior, merely barking that his affairs were no business of anyone but himself.

"I know," Sansa assured her serenely, speaking her next words with nothing but genuine feeling. "I trust you, Brienne."

* * *

They met her forces off the coast of The Whispers, close to a hundred and fifty ships coming together to squeeze along the passage to Blackwater Bay.

He tried not to get too cocky but exhilaration was coursing through him as he thought about the legends that would be inspired by this moment. He was standing on the edge of the Lion Slayer, watching with bated breath as the Red Keep came into his line of sight. His crew was pulsating with excitement, never having gotten so close to tasting true victory before now; they had never been on the winning side of a war before, having been shat on since his father inherited the Iron Islands.

A three-headed dragon banner flapped in the wind on the smaller ship beside his own, Daenerys Targaryen waiting at the edge of it tirelessly. Her armor was lighter than Theon would have recommended, though his freshly forged kraken armor hadn't been broken in yet either.

She wore a thin breastplate and sharp pauldrons but otherwise donned only her chainmail and a dress, an ornamental -or so he supposed- sword at her side and silver hair blowing with the rough winds.

He wondered what Joffrey Baratheon would see when he looked out of his bedchamber window and saw them coming for him.

The Martells were using Targaryen banners, not wanting to play their hand too soon while Prince Oberyn did... whatever it was that he was doing in the city. Theon wasn't clear on what his role was other than that he was sewing the seeds for dissent within Joffrey's ranks. The Dornish were notoriously tight-lipped about what they were planning, likely telling no one but the Dragon Queen the full story, if even her.

Three dragons flew behind them, flapping their wings in a way that still mystified Theon.

They were all just children playing at the game of thrones, none of them over the age of twenty-five and yet squabbling over the Seven Kingdoms like any of them had a right to it at all. Lord Eddard wasn't much older when Robert's Rebellion happened, and King Robert was around Sansa's age when he first took the throne.

Daenerys had an entourage beside her- Tyrion Lannister, Varys, Ser Barristan Selmy, Missandei, and Commander Grey Worm- and he felt a hand clap at his shoulder, startling him though he tried not to let it show. It was just Skyte, one of the men who'd first joined him before the Kingsmoot.

"Your sister's gonna be right jealous that she's not here for this," the sailor grinned openly, his thick beard nearly obscuring his toothy smile. "Can hardly believe it myself. We'll be there by nightfall by the looks of it. Perhaps I'll find a salt wife in some Southron wench, bring her back to Pyke with me when we're done."

"I pity the lass already," Theon snickered as the tide rocked their ship. He licked his lips as they sailed closer and closer to the shores of a city he'd only visited once before, back when he was just a green boy with far too much to prove. When the bells of the city began ringing, he laughed aloud. "It seems they've seen us."

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Robb eyed his guest warily, having no regard for courtesy in the presence of a man who'd betrayed their father in some way or another.

Sansa stood at his side, eyeing Petyr Baelish with distrust as he approached the King in the North with caution. They had stopped at the sight of Arryn banners on the Goldroad, wary of a potential confrontation, especially with their forces diminished and Daenerys having flown off on her dragon two days earlier.

Littlefinger's eyes flitted back to Sansa when Brienne stepped in front of the two monarchs she was charged to protect, her sword a quarter-way drawn in warning. Two of the Knights of the Vale drew their swords in turn from behind Lord Baelish, and Sandor Clegane cursed under his breath before brandishing his own sword. He stepped in front of Robb as if to protect him, though Robb just continued eyeing his aunt's husband with suspicion.

He held a letter out as an offering, eyes fixed on Sansa in an unblinking way that made it rather obvious that he cared little about what the King in the North had to say. "Lord Robert Arryn has declared for you, my queen." A hint of a smirk crept onto his lips as if to scream 'I told you so' and only broadened when Sansa stepped forward to see it for herself. Sansa wondered if they made the decision the moment they heard about Tywin Lannister's death. "The Knights of the Vale are yours until the war is won. Lord Arryn will swear fealty to Queen Daenerys once she takes the throne but hopes that his forces make up for his absence on the battlefield."

* * *

It took two weeks for Robb's armies to reach them, their forces blending together in the large encampments they built outside of the city walls. There had been no confrontation yet, the Lannisters instead choosing to cower behind the walls of the Red Keep in fear. The smallfolk fled as soon as the ironborn forces made for land, leaving their possessions behind for the taking. It wasn't much but it was enough to tide them over while they waited for the Northern forces to join them.

Their ships were docked far enough away that they weren't at risk for attack but close enough to the city that they remained a threat. He had purposely set up camp beside the Starks so that he would have a chance to greet Robb before everything went to hell, though it seemed his goodbrother had naught to do but 'strategize' and flirt with Daenerys Targaryen beside one of the braziers near the medical tent.

It was amusing, really, to see Robb trip over himself like he used to when he fancied the blonde serving girl at White Harbor when they'd visited nearly a decade earlier, or the brown-haired singer at Last Hearth. He was likely making a mess of things, rubbing at the back of his neck as he recited what Theon could only assume was terrible self-composed poetry at the Targaryen Queen. She wasn't making any pained faces yet, so he supposed it was going as well as it could be.

"I got some more of the potato broth," Sansa announced as she sat beside Theon, scooting close to him with her soup clutched between both hands. He pressed his lips to her cheek and then to the corner of her lips swiftly, trying not to make a face when his turnip soup sloshed over his sleeve at the sudden movement.

Theon paid it no mind, preferring to keep his eyes locked on Sansa's. She swallowed a couple of spoonfuls of the soup before she realized she was being stared at, a slow smile spreading across her face at the attention. Wordlessly, Theon placed his bowl on the ground beside the log and held his arms out to her.

Sansa burrowed into him immediately, taking solace in their shared need for comfort. He pressed his nose to the top of her hair, inhaling deeply as he avoided thinking about the confrontations that tomorrow would inevitably yield.

* * *

Daenerys stalked in front of the front line of soldiers, her white horse padding before her army in a respectably calm way, considering the dragons flying overhead. The smaller ones circled over their forces, so high up in the sky that he could barely see them anymore.

The bigger one -her favorite- was hovering closer to ground, zooming over their armies aggressively every few minutes in a rather blatant display of power.

Theon's men were in the vanguard with the Stark forces, all astride horses that the Dornish supplied to them from the Goldroad. The Dothraki lingered far behind them, and the Unsullied were positioned around the city walls, lined up in four rows as if to prevent anyone from fleeing.

The Tyrell army alone was nearly the size of all of their combined forces, as still as stone as they awaited their signal to attack. Theon couldn't help but notice a few of their banners, honestly a little irritated that Maester Luwin's lessons had actually stuck in his mind. Florent, Tarly, Redwyne, Fossoway... the apple banner had always been his favorite. He remembered thinking that having an apple for a sigil was the funniest thing in the world when he was ten years old.

Garlan Tyrell stood at the front of the large army, recognizable by the enormous rose on his plate armor. Theon could only assume it was him through his skills of deduction; Willas Tyrell couldn't walk without a cane and Loras Tyrell would be donning a white cloak and not a green one, likely at his sister's side rather than on the battlefield. The warrior's eyes were following Daenerys as she rode in front of her men fearlessly, eventually coming to a stop in front of the Knights of the Vale.

They waited there for quite some time, and staring the opposing forces down got quite tiresome after the first thirty minutes.

Theon tried not to get too distracted but found himself impatient at all of the pre-battle etiquettes that they were abiding by; if they were going to slaughter each other, they might as well just get to it rather than attempting to intimidate each other underneath the hot sun. His armor felt warm to the touch and Theon longed to just squirm out of it, jump into the sea, and swim around a bit before getting back here. By the looks of it, he would have the time to do it if he pleased.

The thought made him laugh under his breath, stopping only when the city gates opened. He squinted as he tried to gauge what the fuck was happening.

In a matter of seconds, a plump red-faced man came trotting out on a horse. He was holding a white flag high in the air and the sight of it was dizzying.

The man's soldiers didn't look surprised at the sight, nor did they set down their weapons even as he stopped a good distance away from them and hopped off of his steed as if he had rehearsed the act before joining them on the battlefield. He wore an ornate rose on his armor, indicating his ancestry for all to see.

His squire rushed to his side and took the flag from Mace Tyrell before he knelt for Daenerys. "We surrender the city to our rightful queen, as our ancestors did to Aegon the Conquerer hundreds of years ago." The man looked like he wanted to say more but held back from doing so, shaking like a leaf under her hard gaze. "The false king Joffrey Baratheon has been taken to the Black Cells, as has every Lannister in the city. We are at your mercy, Your Grace."


	6. show me hope again

By the fourth day of Daenerys Targaryen's reign, court had already fallen into a routine of sorts.

Sansa stood beside the pillar closest to the throne, watching the proceedings with mild boredom. People were still arriving at King's Landing in anticipation of the coronation, each of them hoping to try and curry favor with their new monarch. She had seen this before, first with King Robert, and then with Joffrey. It was in this very room that he had a man's tongue torn out for penning an unflattering song about him. She hadn't missed this at all.

Sansa hated everything about being at court; she hated the stiff way that people would address one another, she hated the malicious undercurrents that accompanied every word spoken in this damned room, and she hated the area on the mezzanine that she was sequestered into as an ally to the crown.

It was a horrid place, one that she thought she would never have to see again when Theon first whisked her out of this city.

Littlefinger was lingering behind Robert Arryn on the marble as the little lord trembled over to the throne, kneeling for Daenerys as if he would collapse at any second. His hair had grown out some but he looked just as sickly as he did when she had seen him at the Vale. Looking at him in this state reminded Sansa of his namesake, famed for his strength on the battlefield. It was rather ironic, she supposed, that Sweetrobin was so frail when King Robert had notoriously been a brute on the battlefield.

Robert recited the same words that Sansa was tired of hearing at this point, her cousin’s billowy sleeves touching the ground as he stuttered out his pledge to the queen. Oh, how she hated this place. 

She locked eyes with Oberyn Martell, standing beside Arianne on the ground level of the Great Hall. He was looking at her strangely as if he knew every terrible thing she had ever done, every secret she had told, and every horrid, homicidal thought that crossed her mind about the imprisoned king. The Red Viper’s lips quirked into a smirk and his niece followed his diverted attention to her, her face souring once she realized that it was Sansa who had drawn his eye.

It seemed that she had taken Ser Arys Oakheart's change in loyalty personally. 

Brienne was standing directly behind Sansa, remarkably alert despite the tediousness of the event. It comforted her to know that her guard would notice if the Princess of Dorne attempted to slip some poison into her chalice at dinner. Incredibly unlikely as it was, she was better safe than sorry.

Sansa looked away from the prince and tugged at the ends of her sleeves uncomfortably, her eyes flicking back over to her cousin.

Even Daenerys looked properly irritated now, her fingers thrumming against the armrest of the throne impatiently as Robert rambled.

A hand snaked around her waist, warm against the bodice of her gown. She would have jumped with surprise if she hadn't recognized Theon by his touch. Sansa smiled sweetly at the man beside her, immediately taking notice of the rich browns of his hair in the light.

He was dressed in the best garb that he had, a look he wore in Winterfell a handful of times. His zig-zagging vest and flower-patterned gold tunic made for a fetching look, however different it was from the clothes that he wore with the ironborn.

He traced along the swirling patterns of her dress and mouthed ‘I’m bored’ to her as soon as Lord Baelish stepped forward to wax-poetic at the queen.

This may have been dull but she certainly preferred it over Joffrey’s court where sadism took precedence over decorum.

Suddenly, Theon’s lips were at her ear and he was breathing out a string of insults that would have scandalized Sansa on any other day.

Perhaps her boredom had gotten the best of her or her sense of humor had twisted significantly, because his whispered jokes at Littlefinger’s expense made her shake with barely restrained laughter.

She ignored the curious look that Robb threw her from beside the column in favor of whispering her own japes back to her partner, ridiculing Lord Baelish’s pointed beard without mercy. Theon snorted as soon as she was three words into her second slight, his hand kneading at the side of her hip fondly.

* * *

Her fingers grazed Theon’s bare back idly, brushing past his shoulder blades as he slept. He was such a heavy sleeper that he hardly noticed, stirring just a little bit under her touch.

Theon snored lightly and buried his face into the pillow he was clutching with all of the innocence of a sleeping kitten. Sansa smiled affectionately down at him, wishing that she could sleep as soundly in the place that used to be her hell.

Better the Maidenvault than her old rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast, at least.

It was a luxurious set-up, one that looked nothing like her previous accommodations as Joffrey's betrothed, but the memories that this keep held for her haunted her all the same.

Resigned to another night without sleep, Sansa rolled onto her side and pushed herself into a sitting position.

She wondered if her doll was still here- the one that her father gifted to her almost a lifetime ago. Joffrey had probably thrown it out in a rage the moment she fled the capital.

A knock at the door pulled Sansa out of her thoughts, a quiet yet insistent rapping at the wood. She dragged herself out of bed and sluggishly made for the door.

When she twisted the handle open and looked outside, there was no one there.

Sansa squinted and put her own palm to her forehead.

Mayhaps it was just a trick of the wind.

* * *

Brella was tucking the corner of the cream-colored sheets into the bed, making frivolous conversation with Sansa as she worked.

Sansa sipped at her warm drink, legs crossed primly as she settled on the ottoman beside her dresser. They didn’t know each other the last time she lived here but the maidservant was pleasant enough with rosy cheeks and mousy brown hair, ever the talkative girl despite her station.

She was one of Queen Margaery’s ladies during Joffrey’s reign, hailing from the Arbor and as chatty as any girl Sansa had ever met.

Sansa had half a mind to ask her to take a moment to rest and sit with her when the girl spoke up.

“The whole castle’s been in a stir since the news, m’lady.” Brella glanced up at her as she smoothed the sheets out and got to work on the covers. “It’s nice to get away from it for a bit, get a little peace and quiet.”

She frowned. “What news?”

Brella’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard, m’lady?” She paused. “I’m sorry, your- Your Grace. It’s hard to keep track of who’s who nowadays.”

Sansa shrugged the mistake off. “It’s no matter, Brella. What’s happened?”

“More than half the Kingsguard were killed in their cells, Your Grace.” Brella spoke in a hushed tone as if she feared there were ears pressed to the walls. Knowing this place, there likely were. “Their throats were slit in the middle of the night.”

“Which ones?” Sansa asked, horrified at the prospect. Joffrey had rotated so much of his guard out that she wasn’t entirely sure who had even perished. Her heart caught in her throat at the thought of someone as chivalrous as Loras Tyrell being overpowered by an assassin in the night.

Brella shook her head feebly and she almost felt a little bad for ruining the servant’s good mood. “Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Ser Osmund, and Ser Balon.”

Sansa’s brows drew together with confusion, recalling only three of those men from her memory.

Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were foul creatures but Ser Balon had always been kind when her father was Hand of the King. She hadn’t even known that he was appointed to the Kingsguard. “Were they unguarded? I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure what happened, Your Grace, but I know the queen’s trying to get to the bottom of it,” Brella was whispering again. “There’s gold cloaks looking through the whole city for whoever done it. They ransacked all our rooms this morning and the White Tower’s been blocked off from _all_ the servants, even the higher ups.”

Two of her tormentors were dead as were two more men donning white cloaks.

For a daunting moment, Sansa thought about Arya’s list and the promise she made her in Riverrun.

She shook her head to rid herself of the thought as soon as it came to mind.

No, Arya wasn’t even in the capital city... was she? No. 

It had to have been someone who wanted revenge against Joffrey’s order. He had no shortage of enemies, not after five miserable years of rule.

Sansa suddenly felt parched. She cleared her throat with a pointed smile. “Could you fetch me another cup, Brella?”

The servant curtseyed immediately, not wasting a moment to get the task done. “Of course, Your Grace. How many teaspoons of honey would you like?”

“Two,” Sansa responded immediately. Before the woman was out of the door, she stopped her. “Brella. Get yourself a cup while you’re at it.”

* * *

Sansa was a little surprised when Daenerys chose to acknowledge the men who perished at the Battle of the Red Fork.

She announced her intention to erect a memorial for the westermen lost in the war, a great marble statue placed in the square of Lannisport. _Lost in the war_ , Sansa sneered internally but still politely clapped with the rest of court, _a gentle way to phrase what she did_. This was probably her Hand's idea.

Her eyes fell to Tyrion standing beside the Iron Throne, freshly-shaven and looking much like his older self.

He wore crimson and gold rather than his usual dark garb, dressed in Lannister colors now that his extended family had arrived from Casterly Rock. They would have to accept him as their warden and liege lord soon enough, so it made sense that he would embrace his heritage once more.

Tywin Lannister’s death had been the beginning of the end for Joffrey’s reign, marking the very moment that the Tyrells decided that the war was lost.

Sansa couldn’t help but notice that Tyrion didn’t wear mourning colors for his father.

She wondered what would become of sweet Tommen, under house arrest in his quarters. She suspected Tyrion would fight to have him legitimized as a Lannister, but she found it hard to believe that Daenerys wouldn’t push for his death or -at the very least- subject him to a life sentence at the Wall.

With Jaime Lannister due to arrive at the capital any day, it seemed that the trial would take place sooner rather than later.

Kevan Lannister perished during the attack on the Lannister armies, having never been at Casterly Rock in the first place. Some Lannister cousin had held the castle, according to Tyrion’s reports and so their blockade had essentially been for nothing. Martyn and Willem had died for nothing, and now they had no father to mourn them. Their older brother had died at the hands of religious fanatics and their family line was all but obliterated. 

“Here to pledge fealty to the rightful queen, Ser Emmon Frey and his lady wife, Genna.” The court’s herald cried out. “With them are Ser Daven, Ser Damion, Ser Lucion, and the Ladies Dorna and Janei of House Lannister.”

Sansa’s eyes found Lord Kevan’s widow immediately, hot anxiety prickling through her skin as the woman stepped forward, her only surviving child clinging to her side. They were both wearing black head to toe, standing tall despite their clear fear of the Targaryen queen.

Funnily enough, the women among the remaining Lannisters were the only ones with the stones to look Daenerys in the eyes. The men cowered under her heated stare, trembling as if her dragons were in court with them and not flying around the crownlands somewhere. 

Without taking a beat, the entire family of lions fell to their knees before the throne and murmured rehearsed repentances to their queen.

* * *

Theon’s head was bent between her legs, his tongue lapping at her quim dutifully in their brief moment of privacy away from court and all of its monotony.

Sansa gripped at the blankets underneath her and twisted the material in her hands.

She tipped her head back against the feathered pillow when his insistent tongue prodded at her with more aggression, urging her to cry out for him. When his fingers curled inside of her, she felt entirely wrecked. “Gods, Theon, please.”

He paused his ministrations to smirk up at her, to which she squeezed her thighs around his face with irritation. She needed _more_ and he wasn’t helping her situation by being smug about it. He got the hint and chuckled before going back to pleasing her, his hand clenching around her right buttocks to pull her closer.

She scooted down a bit and dug her heel into the back of his shoulders, sighing when his fingers continued pushing in and out of her.

The sensation she felt had her breath coming out in stutters, the feeling of it all the more maddening when his tongue flicked back and forth around her pearl.

Sansa gripped at his hair, tugging at it so hard that he grunted and thrust his hips against the soft mattress of their bed helplessly, something sparking within him as his tongue swished frantically against her, more impassioned than before.

“Oh gods,” she felt her climax dawning on her, closer and closer until-

Three knocks sounded from behind her door but he didn’t seem to plan on stopping anytime soon.

They could just ignore it. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they turned away a servant bearing an invitation to dine with some lord or another.

“Queen Sansa?” Brella’s voice came from behind the door timidly, as if she knew what was happening but dared to hope that they were merely taking an afternoon nap. When she received no response, the maid merely rapped at the door again. "Your lady mother would like to see you, Your Grace."

She couldn’t make sense of any of what she was hearing when Theon's fingers were curled inside of her and his mouth was doing _that_.

Her hand flew to her mouth and she bit down on whatever skin she could find as she keened, trying and failing to smother the sound that left her body. Sansa quaked as her hips rolled violently against Theon’s mouth, her moans fading into a series of whimpers while he carried her through her peak.

“My lady?” The same voice asked, a little stronger this time, though she still couldn't quite process it yet. “Are you well?”

She wove her fingers through his curls, pulling and twisting at them tenderly as he continued mouthing at her nub. His tongue felt overwhelming against her now, too much and somehow not enough, but she couldn't muster up the energy or will to tell him to stop.

He rather looked like he belonged between her legs.

“Yes!” Sansa shouted at the door, just a little too forcefully to play it off like they had simply been sleeping. She fought to catch her breath and pushed at Theon’s shoulders so that he would release her from whatever sweet torture he thought to inflict on her. The maidservant would be waiting for hours if she allowed him to keep at it. She gasped when he drew his fingers out from her, entirely unprepared for the suddenness of the action. “Just a moment, Brella!”

Theon laughed gently, her wetness still on his lips as he wiped at his mouth with their covers.

Despite the mild panic that set in at the sound of hushed voices arguing behind the door, she couldn't help but beam at him when he ambled over to their unused tub, naked without a care in the world.

He raised a brow at her salaciously as if to say _this isn't over_ and went about pulling his trousers on. She let her eyes linger on him for a moment, thinking with exultance that she would have one of the chambermaids run a bath for them to share tonight.

Another rap came at the door to remind her that she had guests, and Sansa flung herself off the bed in her rush to find something to wear, cursing under her breath when she slipped her undergarments on inside-out.

* * *

"I didn't think you would be here for another few days," Sansa breathed, a little dumbstruck and very regretful that she hadn't listened more carefully when her mother's presence was announced.

She looked a right mess with tangled hair and swollen lips, at least three red marks burning at the side of her neck. She had managed to find a thick woolen slip to shove over her smallclothes, all of it rumpled and creased as if to tattle on her. "I would have prepared a little better if I had known."

Her mother was standing in front of her with her long red braid hanging over one shoulder. Brella had an apologetic look on her face as Robb fidgeted next to her, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. He was still wearing his arm in a sling, a bandage nearly hanging off of his injured cheek.

Sansa's mortification caught up to her once she realized that they may have heard everything going on behind her chamber doors. The walls of the Maidenvault were notoriously thin, much to her dismay. Robb grimaced, still staring up at the ceiling, and she supposed that was her answer.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Catelyn assured Sansa, a hand coming up to cup her daughter’s cheek. It was unclear whether she was talking about Arya or Edmure, but Sansa deduced that it could only be one of the two. Her mother’s eyes zeroed in on the sight of her bedchambers behind her, probably in a state of disarray given how Sansa had been tearing the room apart for her lost clothing moments earlier. “I hope that I haven’t caught you at a bad time, sweetling.”

“Not at all, Lady Stark." Sansa wanted to die the moment Theon brazenly leaned against the doorway beside her, completely shirtless with a smug look plastered on his face. "You're always welcome here. You are family, after all."

One glance at him magnified Sansa’s embarrassment by a thousand-fold, her eyes immediately finding the fading scratch marks on his chest and back, and the abundance of red and purple love bites littering his neck. If the way her mother's lips tightened was any indication, she took notice as well.

"You ought not to forget yourself, Theon Greyjoy," she gritted out, looking like she wanted nothing more than to throttle her former ward and son by law. "Conduct carries weight here, as I'm sure Sansa could tell you. Perhaps you should consider putting some clothes on before someone sees you."

"In this heat? I'd rather not," Theon barked a laugh and Catelyn turned to glare at Robb when he snorted from beside her. "I appreciate the concern, though.”

Catelyn turned her unimpressed gaze back onto her daughter, to which Sansa flushed and attempted to change the subject. “Bran and Rickon?”

“Home,” her mother responded softly, a little wistful but smiling all the same. "Things have changed so much since you were last there, my sweet girl."

“Of course,” Sansa longed to see her brothers again, more than anything else in the world. She had more than her fill of the South at this point. Now, she only yearned for the only place that she had ever truly called home. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“They can’t wait to see you, sweetling,” Catelyn gushed and Sansa’s expression faltered just the tiniest bit. Had no one told her mother that Sansa would have to stay in King’s Landing? Her mother misinterpreted the look, her hard stare softening a bit. “Arya will come home once word reaches her that the war is over, and we'll all be together again soon enough.” 

It was as if Catelyn was trying to convince herself that Arya ran off because of the Bolton attack and not an unwanted betrothal to a stranger.

Robb locked eyes with Sansa, something unspoken passing between them.

Sansa could only square her jaw and nod sweetly at her mother, not wanting to spoil this for her just yet. 

* * *

The gardens weren’t much different than the last time she was here.

Sansa stared out at the sea of yellow flowers in front of the gazebo, trying to recall if she had seen anything of the sort in Winterfell’s glass gardens.

She planned on collecting seeds from the groundskeeper to take back to Pyke, not paying much mind that Theon kept telling her not to get her hopes up; rarely anything could be cultivated with the climate of the place, and it would be especially difficult to grow any flowers on the island once winter came.

“I’ve always loved how they bloom at this time of year, don’t you?”

Sansa swiveled in her spot to see a woman with a radiant smile waiting behind her, practically glowing in the sunlight. Her long chestnut hair spiraled down in ringlets that must have taken hours to perfect. As pretty as the girl was, Sansa wasn’t sure why she was bothering to speak with her.

“I hope I haven't frightened you too much.” The girl threw her head back and laughed musically at the look of confusion on Sansa’s face. "I’ve heard so much about you that it feels as though we’ve met already, Your Grace."

She leaned over Sansa to delicately pick a daffodil from the bush. Sansa could smell her flowery perfume from their proximity and followed the action with curious eyes. The girl looked up at Sansa coyly as she twirled the flower nimbly between her fingers. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Queen Sansa.”

This woman could only be one person.

“Queen Margaery,” Sansa breathed out at last, just now noticing Loras Tyrell standing a distance away, staring at the hedges above them. He was wearing Kingsguard regalia as the last surviving member of Joffrey’s guard barring Ser Barristan and Ser Arys, but he didn’t wear a white cloak.

Margaery Tyrell’s laughter sounded like windchimes, airy and beautiful.

“It’s just Lady Margaery now,” she quipped, her eyes bright. It made sense that this woman was a queen once. Everything she did and said seemed to have a hint of sweetness to it, honeying her words to mask whatever meaning they truly held. Sansa had seen Cersei attempt the same thing once, though not nearly as well.

“It must be an adjustment for you,” she started out cautiously, not knowing what to make of the woman. “To go from being a queen to serving one.”

Margaery’s smirk didn’t falter. “Not as much as you would think, Your Grace. I found that the crown could be… restrictive at times.”

Somehow that was difficult to believe.

“Restrictive?” Sansa echoed dubiously.

“I’m sure that you of all people could understand that the…” Margaery trailed off purposefully, casting a suggestive look in Sansa’s direction. “Circumstances of my queenship weren’t ideal. My husband’s reign was far from peaceful. Not all of us were fortunate in our affections, I'm afraid.”

Hearing anyone refer to Joffrey as her ‘husband’ made Sansa sick in the stomach.

She felt her cheeks warming at her thoughtlessness. “I- My apologies, my lady. I couldn’t begin to imagine-”

“Couldn’t you?” Margaery’s eyes glinted with humor before her entire tone brightened into something more lighthearted. “I’ve been meaning to go hawking at some point but it seems that we’re in and out of court every day. Have you ever been? I don't imagine it's done much in the North. I could teach you sometime if you're interested.”

“Hawking?” Sansa repeated, a little perplexed by the offer. 

“It’s a favorite pastime of my father's,” she explained excitedly as if they had been friends for years. “I picked it up as a girl and never quite grew out of it.”

Arya would like hawking a great deal more than Sansa would.

“Perhaps,” she replied evenly, not wanting to decline the invitation outright. “I’m a little surprised that you’ve had the time to go hawking.”

It was a bit curious that Margaery was permitted to walk around freely -and mostly unescorted- while her husband was rotting away in a cell.

Perhaps the Tyrells had planned for this ahead of time as the Martells had done.

“I’m very grateful for our queen’s mercy,” Margaery deflected sweetly. “Her kindness has been unfailing, and I pray that her reign is long and prosperous.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Sansa’s, a secretive smile burgeoning on her face as she made all of the right declarations. She seemed so sincere that it nearly took her aback for a minute. She held the daffodil out to Sansa as an offering. “I pray for your reign as well, my queen.”

“Thank you, Lady Margaery,” Sansa answered with her own coquettish look, taking the flower from Margaery after a moment's pause. 

Margaery frowned in an overexaggerated manner as if it pained her to end their interaction so soon. Sansa couldn't tell whether she was being false or not. “I’m afraid that I have somewhere to be but I couldn’t help but say hello when I saw the chance. I think I’ve been rather remiss in my duties to my grandmother.”

“She’s likely disinheriting you as we speak,” Ser Loras jested from behind Margaery, speaking up for the first time in the conversation. The self-assuredness in his grin reminded her a bit of Theon and Jaime Lannister both, the comparison coming to her mind before she could stop to think on what it meant. She remembered a time when she would fantasize about marrying him instead of her intended, preferring a total stranger over a lifetime of pain and suffering with Joffrey.

“My brother thinks his jokes are clever. I try not to encourage him,” Margaery stage-whispered to Sansa. “I hope to see you soon, Sansa."

“I’m sure that we can arrange something,” Sansa beamed at Margaery Tyrell, gladdened to have made something of a friend out of the other woman. Even if it were all some elaborate scheme to get something from Sansa, she couldn’t help but still enjoy her company. “Enjoy your afternoon, my lady.”

* * *

“Everything smells of shit here,” Oberyn spat, swinging a practice sword about aimlessly. It seemed to be a source of entertainment for him rather than something he intended to use. “The city, the people, the castle, all of it. Complete shit.”

Theon chuckled, letting his arrow fly towards the target. It hit just to the side of the bullseye, missing the mark by a hair.

“You can say that again,” he murmured, glancing to the side to see the man scrutinizing his form.

He straightened without thinking much of it. He knew that the prince came here to try and learn whatever information he mistakenly thought Theon was privy to, but he couldn’t be sure what it was.

All the bloody Dornish were like this with their secrets and knowing glances and smirking faces.

It infuriated Theon whenever it was turned onto him, hating the feeling that they were laughing at him behind his back.

“My sister hated it here,” Oberyn remarked, spinning the sword around as if it were a stick. “It grieves me that she died in a place like this. She should be growing old on the shores of Sunspear, not-“ he broke off with a snarl, a dark look overcoming his face when Theon turned to him with curiosity. “Justice is in short supply on this side of the sea.”

“You don’t think the Dragon Queen will give you justice?” Theon prepped his next arrow, trying to sound less interested than he was.

Oberyn Martell likely picked up on his intentions immediately, clever as a snake in the grass.

The Red Viper huffed a laugh, his previous anger still simmering in his tone. “Tywin Lannister died a meaningless death. The man who ordered their deaths – Elia’s and her children - burnt to a crisp like he was nothing.” He grinned as he fingered the edge of the blade to judge its sharpness for himself. “Dead and forgotten, with little Tyrion as the Lion of Lannister. I couldn’t have asked for more from her.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Theon asked, releasing his next arrow.

No answer came.

When he turned to look at Oberyn, he was already halfway back to the castle.

* * *

Sansa plucked on the strings of the harp in her mother’s quarters, strumming as masterfully as she could on the out-of-tune instrument. She was out of practice but played a familiar tune; a simple one that Alesander had sung for her on the road.

She looked up a split second before Robb burst into the room, their mother at his heels.

He stopped in the middle of the room, looking to Lady Catelyn expectantly as she shut the door behind him.

“I wanted to wait until we were all together to tell you.” Sansa set her instrument aside and furrowed her brows but her mother didn’t seem to be concerned with stringing them along for too long. “Roslin’s had her babe.”

Robb froze in place as if he had forgotten all about the baby.

Catelyn continued enthusiastically, blissfully oblivious to her son’s escalating panic spell. “She’s named him Eddard, Robb, after your lord father. She can’t wait for you to meet him,” she chuckled joyously, “it’s all she ever talks about anymore.”

Robb swallowed so loudly that Sansa could hear him from across the room.

She retrieved her discarded instrument and began fiddling with it to deter anyone from acknowledging her. Sansa really did not want to speak with either of them about this matter, not wanting to see her mother’s reaction to her own son following in his father’s footsteps in the worst of ways.

“He’s a beautiful boy with brown curls and blue eyes. He looks so like you, Robb-”

“I have to- I’ve just forgotten, I-” Robb cleared his throat with discomfort and stumbled two steps back towards the door. “I have a previous engagement. I’m- I’ll be back. In a few hours. That’s… it’s wonderful news, Mother.”

Catelyn watched on in confusion as Robb practically bolted out of the door, thoroughly perplexed though she seemed to chock it up to his nerves at being a new father.

* * *

It happened sooner than Sansa thought it would.

Catelyn’s eyes were fixed on Robb, a fury crackling in them that Sansa was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of.

He was sitting at the Dragon Queen’s side, eating with her despite his family being seated elsewhere. They weren’t being particularly intimate but the seating arrangement seemed to be a statement in itself.

Sansa wished that she wasn’t here for this. Her mother had suffered so much over her father’s infidelity- it wasn’t fair that she had to witness Robb doing the very same thing to his wife, the good-daughter of Catelyn’s dreams by the sound of it.

The brown-haired lute player began vocalizing a song that seemed almost too perfectly timed for comfort. She winced at the opening line, knowing exactly how this song went. The Dragon and the Wolf was played at court at least thrice a day.

The singer -an admittedly good one- crooned about how the Dragon Queen’s fiery smile thawed at the King in the North’s icy heart, and Robb only made matters worse by standing up and extending a hand to Daenerys.

He was asking her to dance in front of everyone as if he _wanted_ people to know that he was shaming his Queen in the North.

Sansa felt her mother stiffen beside her and stood up abruptly, not wanting to bear witness to the inevitable confrontation between mother and son. She leaned over Theon on her other side, rubbing at his shoulder affectionately. “Dance with me.”

Theon smiled up at her as if she was the best thing in the world.

“As my queen commands,” he stood immediately, offering an arm out to her with all of the flourish of a man who would mock the other dancers here when they were alone.

* * *

They were standing on a terrace outside of the Great Hall. They had been here for several minutes, just looking up at the stars above them in silence.

She leaned into him, ignoring the boisterous sounds of good cheer coming from inside.

“I want to leave this place,” she murmured, unable to imagine herself spending another few years in the capital.

It had only been a fortnight and she already felt drained.

His hand rubbed over her hipbone comfortingly. “We will, love. I promise.”

* * *

It was virtually impossible to decline a private invitation to break her fast with royalty, as Sansa well remembered from her time as Joffrey's future queen. She had been in these rooms many times, forced to dine with Queen Cersei despite their mutual discomfort. Joffrey would often taunt her relentlessly; for not being pretty enough, for wearing an ugly gown, for not smiling at him when he spoke to her, for wearing her hair incorrectly...

Those days were long gone.

Sansa found herself sipping on pomegranate juice in the royal quarters, savoring the taste on her tongue.

They were eating in relative silence, Daenerys Targaryen scooping runny eggs onto her spoon as Missandei deftly tore apart a piece of bacon.

The other woman’s presence made Sansa wonder what became of Shae.

She quite missed having her as a companion, no matter her ineptitude as a handmaiden; Shae’s shortcomings as a servant almost allowed Sansa to think that she was a friend rather than someone who was forced to spend time with her.

Remembering their game with the boats, Sansa felt a pang in her heart.

She would find Shae soon, even if she was miles away from the capital now. Perhaps she would even choose to come to Pyke as a member of Sansa's household.

“I like your outfit, Your Grace,” Sansa spoke up. It was true- the dress was one of the more stunning pieces that she had seen in her life. Her hair hung loose, free of its usual braids, and her shoulders were plated with a dragonscale textile. The gown was a vibrant red and crisscrossed at the torso, more skin exposed than even Margaery Tyrell dared to show. “It suits you well.”

“Does it?” Daenerys smirked in a manner that would have seemed flirtatious if she didn’t know any better. Sansa didn’t know what to say to that so she merely nodded politely and stabbed at a glazed apricot with her fork. “I asked you here for a reason, Sansa.”

Sansa set her cutlery down and looked the woman in the eye. She figured that their tentative friendship wouldn’t last very long. “Which is?”

“The pretender will be put on trial soon. His mother as well.” Sansa nodded, wondering whether Jaime would even get a trial or not. He had been brought to the capital with her mother’s travel party, but she hadn’t heard any word about him since. “It will be a fair trial, I assure you, one that no man will be able to contest. As much as I’d like to throw them to my dragons and be done with it, I recognize that an example must be set.”

She wasn’t sure that she liked the sound of that. “Of course.”

Daenerys gave her a measured look. “It’s a formality if nothing else, but one that is necessary to ensure and preserve the peace of the realm.”

They may have left the Dragon Queen’s lips but the words sounded entirely like Lord Varys.

“I know how difficult it is to be a woman in this world. Perhaps more than anyone,” Sansa looked up at Daenerys as the other woman spoke. “To be abused by unworthy men and expected to remain subservient. I’ve heard about what the pretender did to you. How he punished you for the crime of having the wrong name. For being a traitor's sister, as if his supposed father wasn't a usurper as well.” There was heat in Daenerys’ eyes as she leaned across the table and took Sansa’s cold hand in her own warm ones. “I want us to be friends, Sansa.”

The earnestness in her tone came as a shock to her.

“I want that as well,” she murmured, a little surprised at herself that the words rung true.

“I understand if you’re uncomfortable with the notion of speaking at the trial.” Sansa had tried not to think about it. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Her eyes snapped up, not expecting the offer but figuring that she would have some incentive for Sansa to do it anyways. Why else would she bring it up?

“If you do speak against him, however, you will see justice done.” Daenerys’ eyes were blazing with an intensity that could have burned the room down. “Be a witness at the trials, Sansa, and he will answer to fire and blood. Do this and I will see that you receive the vengeance you are due.”

The thought of reliving his torment made her stomach contract painfully.

She thought she had gotten away from all of this when she sailed away from the city on Theon’s ship the first time, that she was finally free of its grasp.

“Joffrey dies.” Sansa named her terms simply.

She just needed to know that she wouldn’t be doing this for nothing.

Daenerys smirked, a slow hateful one that reminded Sansa of what she had done at the Red Fork. “Joffrey dies.”

* * *

Robb didn’t know that she was here. _Our little secret_ , Daenerys had winked at her when they parted at the entrance of the dungeons.

Ser Arys dawdled behind her, nearly blending into the walls when she settled in front of her destination.

“Joffrey,” she sing-songed once she approached the cell in question, her fingers curling around the metal bars. Her hair was pulled back at the front with a simple hair tie, the rest of it coiling down in waves around her cloak. It was loose as an act of rebellion, recalling that Joffrey's favorite style on her was the Southron updo that his mother favored.

He was curled in a corner on the ground, covered in grime and dirt despite only being here for a few weeks. He looked thinner than she remembered, absolutely wretched in comparison to how he used to preen over his appearance before. It gave her satisfaction to see him in such a state even though his humiliation was nothing in comparison to what he had subjected her to.

Once his eyes focused on her, they ignited with anger. He stood up, stumbling over himself before he threw his body against the bars as if to frighten her.

She didn’t flinch at the sudden movement, merely staring at him as he snarled at her.

His blond hair fell into his eyes, grubby in a way that made him resemble his uncle-father. His wormy lips were twisted with ire, green eyes blazing as she always thought they would when she pictured this moment in her head. He was pathetic.

“You treacherous whore!” Joffrey shrieked, rattling the bars furiously with both of his hands. She couldn’t help but laugh at his antics, likening him to a child throwing a tantrum. The sound enraged him more, “you’ve always been a treasonous bloody cunt!”

“You can do better than that,” Sansa egged him on with the most condescending tone she could muster through his incoherent shouts.

He spat at her and missed.

“I can’t wait to see you burn,” she jeered, laughing again once his eyes widened. Whether it was from fear or shock was yet to be seen. Joffrey didn’t seem capable of forming words, not when he was drowning her taunts out with his screaming. It was quite annoying after the first few seconds.

They must have made for a pretty picture.

Everyone commented on how handsome they looked together early into the betrothal, him a golden lion and her an auburn-haired beauty of the North. Now they were brought together once more, so close that she could smell his rancid breath. So close that she could strangle him in his cell if it was what she wished.

“You didn’t think she would behead you, did you?” She jeered, enjoying being the one to torture him for a change. “No, that’s not what she has planned for you.” Sansa had never felt so powerful as when she leaned closer and let her lips quirk up into a sweet smile, her words like venom. “You don’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.”

Joffrey recognized his own words in her mouth, to his credit.

Sansa had little else to say to him, finding that this wasn’t as entertaining without his participation.

She withdrew from his cell and nodded at her guard, ready to leave now. Sansa clasped her hands together and walked away, his shouts resembling a dying cat's more than a person- _Sansa, Sansa, Sansa_.

She looked forward to watching him die.

* * *

Daenerys spared no expense for the coronation.

The throne room was decked in black and red, a freshly forged three-headed dragon hanging above the Iron Throne. Dragon skulls lined the walls, brought out of wherever they were being stored to symbolize the restoration of the Targaryen dynasty.

Sansa stood at the front of the crowd with her family, the soft strumming of a harp now the only sound in the hall.

It was beautiful in its own way.

They had been standing here for a few minutes; long enough that people were anxiously peering over their shoulders to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

Daenerys strode down the throne room then, her long train trailing after her as she walked.

Her styling made her look ethereal; her white hair was braided and drawn up, falling at her back in luxurious waves with each step she took. Her lips were a shining ruby, her violet eyes lined with kohl to harshen her features. She looked like the very definition of a queen.

Her gown was a deep black studded with silver, long and lavish, the fabric seeming to mimic the effect of dragonscales. A blood-red cape hung over her shoulders, swishing as she walked.

She looked undaunted though that was probably because her eyes were zeroed in on the throne ahead of her rather than at her captivated audience.

Once she finally reached it and turned to look at her subjects and allies alike, Sansa noticed the way she exhaled when she looked at their expectant gazes, as if scared that someone would rip this away from her before she could do so much as sit on the throne.

It was strange to see someone so sure of herself so frightened of succeeding.

“In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name… Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.” Tyrion announced the words for all to hear, a stepping stool ready for him directly adjacent to the throne. His golden doublet shone in the light, his eyes twinkling with awe as he climbed each step.

Daenerys let her eyes slide shut when he placed a silver crown upon her head, one forged in the shape of three dragons coming together with rubies encrusted into it. They were reminiscent of her brother, Rhaegar, who perished at the Trident. Sansa knew the story of how his blood mingled with the rubies of his armor when Robert Baratheon struck him down, as much as the story of her aunt distressed her.

Tyrion retreated into his position beside her and a servant whisked the stool away, everyone watching with fascination as their young queen sat upon the throne.

“Long may she reign!” Tyrion called out, and Daenerys blinked several times, breathing heavily as if she was on the brink of tears.

Her eyes were rounded, almost like a child’s.

“Long may she reign,” the hall full of people chanted in return.

* * *

Shireen Baratheon curtseyed in front of Daenerys, her black hair partitioned off into two tight braids. She had been cleaned up for her audience with the queen, wearing modest attire and acting far more civil than Sansa would have had the roles been reversed.

Her own lord father had been killed by Targaryen forces and her home taken from her, much like what had happened to Daenerys herself when she was a child.

Despite the greyscale on her face, she was almost a comely girl. She looked melancholic beyond her years, a feeling that Sansa knew well. Her father had spoken for Stannis Baratheon when he lived- he once wanted him on the Iron Throne.

“Your father committed grievous crimes against my family,” Daenerys’ fingers danced along one of the blades to the throne. “But you have done me no wrong, Lady Shireen. I would not hold a daughter culpable for her father’s sins.”

It seemed that this would be the extent of how the elephant in the room was addressed.

“As it stands, you cannot remain in the south. You’re the last trueborn heir to your house, and I simply cannot risk any of your father's bannermen rising up against my rule.”

Shireen said nothing, though she seemed to know where this was going.

“I’ve spoken with my allies in the North and we’ve come to an accord. You will be sent North as a ward of King Robb Stark; you will receive Winterfell’s full hospitality, and when you reach of age, you will wed Brandon Stark and claim the empty seat of the Dreadfort as your home. Your line will not die out, my lady, so long as you do your duty and accept this match.”

The girl consented to the betrothal graciously despite the unintentional insult it yielded; the crippled wolf and the malformed stag, together.

Mother had informed Sansa about it before court today, fretting about how they would have to arrange a Northern marriage for Rickon now that all of her other children were tethered elsewhere. Maester Luwin had determined back at Winterfell that Bran was as capable of producing heirs as any other man, and so, the match seemed to make perfect sense.

Perhaps this Stark-Baratheon union would yield better results than the last two attempts at one.

“Thank you, Your Grace. If I may make… one request?” Shireen Baratheon’s voice trembled as she addressed the queen.

Daenerys looked surprised at the question but smiled all the same, seemingly endeared by the young girl. It was a stark contrast to Robert Baratheon who bellowed for everyone to hear that he wanted Daenerys dead when she wasn't much younger than Shireen herself was now. “You may."

“There is a man in the cells, Your Grace. Ser Davos Seaworth.”

Daenerys didn’t seem to recognize the name but humored her regardless. “What of him?”

“He was like a father to me as a girl, Your Grace. I would be eternally grateful if he could join my party in the North, as my protector.” Shireen’s blue eyes were pleading, her words charming even the cruelest of nobles in the hall.

Daenerys addressed Tyrion now, her face carefully blank. “What are his crimes?”

“Advising the usurper, Stannis Baratheon.”

“What else?” Her eyes darted back to the girl standing before the throne.

“That is all, Your Grace.”

“Ah,” Daenerys’ tone was flat. She seemed to be measuring her options, pursing her lips in thought. When she granted the request, Shireen clapped a hand to her mouth in joyous shock. “Ser Jorah, please see to it that Ser Davos joins Lady Shireen’s guard when Robb Stark’s forces return North.”

* * *

"I went to see him."

Sansa was watching Theon through the reflection of her mirror, lowering her hairbrush as she said the words. He seemed to understand what she meant without further explanation. He came up behind her tentatively, gathering her hair with a hand before splaying it over to one side.

He brushed his lips against her shoulder in a soft kiss. "How are you doing?"

She lifted a hand up to stroke the side of where his scar stretched across his cheek. He leaned into her touch, warm behind her; solid, and steadfast, and present, and loving. "I expected it to be worse."

"Did he say anything?"

"Nothing he hasn't said before," Sansa hummed. "Seeing him like that, it was..." she struggled for a moment. Around anyone else, she wouldn't have voiced her thoughts aloud; it was brutish to fantasize about the misfortune of others, no matter who they were. Theon wouldn't judge her though, even if she admitted to killing a dozen men. "Cathartic." 

Theon was quiet, nuzzling his nose into her hair rather than responding. She was grateful for the silence- it let her think.

"I want him dead, Theon." The words should have scared her, but they didn't.

She had spent a long time grappling with the thought; she tried to kill him once and prayed for his death enough times, and in Riverrun, she spent countless nights imagining the satisfaction of seeing Robb remove Joffrey's head from his body.

Not that they were just counting the days until his death, it felt real.

She was anguished at the thought of a Lannister loyalist freeing Joffrey from his cell, or someone speaking in his defense at the trials. Though she knew Daenerys wouldn't deprive her of this justice, she still feared that he would find some way out of his punishment.

"I know, love." Theon kissed the top of her head again. "I know."

* * *

All of the nobles in the room were holding their breath, but Sansa couldn’t imagine why. Arys was in the midst of being formally dismissed from the guard, kneeling before the throne with his white cloak laid out in front of him.

This was all theatrics. The wooden way that Daenerys dismissed the man from her guard veiled her relief at not being protected by a known oathbreaker.

Seven men were chosen for the mostly vacant positions, starting with Ser Barristan’s reinstatement as Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

It seemed rather convenient that nearly Joffrey’s entire guard had been murdered mere days earlier; a darker part of Sansa had to wonder if the attacks were premeditated, but she supposed it didn’t matter anymore.

Ser Jorah Mormont said his pledges then, being gifted with a white cloak upon rising. Aggo and Rakkharo followed, reciting their vows in their own language as well as in a broken attempt at the Common Tongue for the benefit of their spectators.

“Ser Loras Tyrell, please approach the throne.”

The attractive knight took a knee before his queen, his entire household hanging behind him supportively.

The sight of it warmed her heart a little, reminding her of her own family.

His sister and grandmother smirked in tandem as if they knew exactly how this conversation would go. They likely did already, as Sansa heard whispers that the Tyrells met with Daenerys in private to negotiate the future of their house. From what she was told, Margaery’s marriage to Joffrey would be deemed invalid upon his execution and she would remain at court until she made a noble marriage. Which one, Sansa couldn’t be sure, but there was no shortage of eligible men in Westeros. The Tyrells were determined to remain in power, no matter the cost to their dignity or purses. Lord Mace was in the talks of becoming her Master of Coin as well, likely due to the wealth of the Reach.

“I understand that you wish to continue serving in the Queensguard, Ser Loras.”

“I do,” Loras Tyrell swore fervently. “I want nothing more than to serve my rightful queen to the best of my abilities, Your Grace. Upon learning of the king's parentage, I took initiative to ensure that the Tyrells would end this war on the right side of history. I arrested him myself in your name. I have believed in you from the first, my queen. Allow me to serve and I will do it for the rest of my life.”

Sansa bristled at the ease with which the lies left his lips. 

She had always thought Ser Loras was honorable but she supposed everyone was a liar here.

His pledge was accepted within no time, Daenerys nodding with approval at him as he entered her service.

“Ser Perwyn Frey, please approach the throne.”

Sansa’s brows shot up at the sight of her traveling companion marching up to the throne, looking a bit confused but kneeling all the same.

“I have heard tales of your valor on the battlefield, good ser,” Daenerys started. “The courage that you demonstrated in serving my trusted ally, the King in the North, is admirable.” The crowd tittered a bit, whispering about Robb and Daenerys as if it were the court’s worst kept secret. “I offer you a position on my Queensguard, Ser Perwyn. It is yours to take if you wish it.”

Ser Perwyn didn’t hesitate when he nodded in confirmation, asserting his intentions to remain at her side for all to hear.

She thought foolishly that it would be the end of it- that Daenerys would appoint some hedge knight from the Stormlands or the Vale into her service, but she seemed to relish in the name that the herald called out next.

“Lady Obara Sand, please approach the throne.”

 _That_ caused a stir.

A woman in breeches and armor strode forward, a vainglorious look on her face at the chaos that began ensuing at her naming as the final member of the guard.

Not only was she a woman, but she was a bastard at that.

This was unprecedented.

Her dark braid swished as she approached the queen.

“I offer you a knighthood and subsequently, a position on my Queensguard, Lady Obara." Daenerys was reveling under the attention, quieting the murmurs in her hall with a raise of her hand. "You would be the first woman to don the white cloak in the realm’s history.”

Obara knelt to the ground. “It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

* * *

Her mother helped her dress for the trial. She wore a pale blue gown with white trimmings, loose around the sleeves to project a look of innocence. Her hair was down, braided along the top in a Northern style to remind everyone of who she was. She was Sansa Stark, Ned Stark’s little girl and a hostage of their bastard king.

Even though it had been years since she was that girl, she wanted them to remember who she was; she wanted them to remember that they had done nothing to help her when she was weeping on the floor of the throne room, a crossbow pointed at her and her gown ripped nearly all the way off.

Catelyn spritzed Sansa with a sweet perfume, one that smelled of vanilla, and gestured for Brienne to escort her out.

She touched her seashell necklace absently as they walked along the Maidenvault’s corridors toward the Red Keep.

Ser Perwyn was waiting at the entrance of the throne room, smiling amiably at Sansa as Brienne left her in his care. “You look quite fetching in your new armor, Ser Perwyn,” Sansa commented airily as Brienne entered the throne room, not so nervous now that someone she knew was watching over her.

He thanked her quietly as the doors opened once more.

She was announced by Daenerys, lounging on the throne as if it had always been hers.

“Our next witness, Queen Sansa of the Houses Greyjoy and Stark.”

Joffrey was gagged in the center of the room, evidently due to too many outbursts, and whirled around to look at her.

If looks could kill, Sansa would be dead four times over.

* * *

Theon was waiting for her in a chair on the far right of the throne, the old favor she had sewn him in Riverrun tied around his arm. She made her way to her family on wobbly legs, holding her head high despite all the pitying looks directed her way.

Her chair was the fourth in a row of six. Robb sat next to Theon and Catelyn next to Robb, resolutely not speaking to him.

Sansa couldn’t blame her for still being cross.

She had been determined not to cry, not wanting to give Joffrey the satisfaction of it, but it seemed that she didn't need to when she described how he had made her stare at her father’s decapitated head on the walls. The lords and ladies gasped in horror -as if they didn't already know- and the judges presiding over the trial muttered to one other in shock.

Oberyn Martell let his rage brew under a mask of humor but clenched his fists when she spoke of the beatings she would receive at his hand, likely thinking of his sister when she spoke. Yohn Royce, an old friend of her father's, shook his head with disappointment, and Randyll Tarly merely watched on with a stony-faced expression. Daenerys played her part as well, crafting her words to sound empathetic and kind when she dismissed Sansa and thanked her for her courage.

It was a good show, one that Sansa didn’t realize she was putting on until it was over.

She sat, her mother's hand finding her elbow to rub at her arm comfortingly.

* * *

Margaery Tyrell didn’t wear mourning clothes when she took the stand, instead clad in a vine-encrusted white gown.

She wept recounting her marriage to Joffrey, claiming many things about her marriage to the king; he treated her kindly at first when her family first brokered their engagement. She confessed that he forced her to do a number of indecent things in their bedchambers all to please him, and that he was cruel and sadistic, and that his obsession with Sansa consumed him to the point of madness.

He was fixated on finding Sansa and putting a son in her as his father intended, no matter either of their marriages.

Margaery sobbed that he beat her every time she got her moon blood and frequently accused her of being barren in front of the entire court. He apparently made bold claims that marrying Margaery cursed his reign because she wasn’t the woman the gods intended for him; that the gods required him to do as his 'father' had done and fight to get his first Stark queen-to-be back.

Sansa believed Margaery, but there was an edge to everything she said.

She saw the Queen of Thorns dabbing at her granddaughter’s face with a handkerchief afterward, and could have sworn she saw her smile. 

* * *

They took a brief recess once Ser Loras and Maester Pycelle testified, the former backing his sister’s claims up and the latter talking in circles until he was dismissed.

Robb was leaning against the wall, drinking his iced tea in one go as people mingled around the room, whispering about how they had _always_ known that Joffrey the Illborn was twisted in the head. Theon’s thumb rubbed circles around her wrist, his movements growing more uncoordinated the longer they spent there.

Lady Olenna was immersed in conversation with her mother when Theon dipped forward, squeezing at her hand once. “I don’t suppose you’d want to get some time alone in before Littlefinger bores us to death, would you?”

She knew him well enough to recognize exactly what he meant by ‘some time alone’ and turned so that she could step a little closer to him. “Are you serious?”

“Completely,” he whispered back without an ounce of humor to the words. His eyes were darkened somewhat and he licked his lips as he stared down at her. “There’s an empty servants’ chamber down the hall. I checked before you got here.”

A rush of exhilaration flooded through her. She surveyed the area and it seemed that Robb had left to get himself another refreshment, their mother enraptured in her conversation with the Tyrell matriarch.

After the emotional turbulence she had just gone through, Sansa wanted nothing more than to unwind.

Now that the thought of the two of them having a quick go at it inside a cramped room nestled itself into her brain, she couldn’t rid herself of it.

She wanted to take all her frustrations out on him, to hitch her leg over his waist and forget all about the trial and Joffrey Baratheon.

“Let’s go,” Sansa breathed out, tugging on Theon’s hand to drag him down the corridor.

* * *

They slipped back into the Great Hall mostly unnoticed and a little disheveled.

“I gave two to Joffrey on Lord Tyrion’s request,” Lord Baelish spoke slowly, each word controlled and practiced. “He wasn’t very experienced in that regard, I’m afraid, and the Lord Hand believed that some... intimacy could reign his temper in somewhat."

The audience chuckled at the insinuation and he held back one of his own, validated by the sound.

“Lord Tyrion often jested about the boy going to his wedding bed a maid, and so the king began coming to me himself.” His tone darkened. “I confess I encouraged it at first. It wasn't uncommon for the previous king to indulge himself and Joffrey was a growing boy. I thought it was only natural. But then...”

"Then?" Yohn Royce prodded, not having the time or the patience for Littlefinger's games. 

"The first girl I gave to him died, and the second one followed suit. Then it seemed that he developed a taste for it. Kept asking for more." Lord Baelish fixed his beady eyes on the queen as if to convince her of his story. "When I wouldn’t give them to him, he’d find the girls himself and pay them to wait in his chambers for him.”

“Tell us about the first girls,” Oberyn drawled, looking spectacularly disinterested in the conversation. “How did he kill them?”

“The first was shortly after Sansa Stark fled the capital,” Lord Baelish’s eyes flicked to where Sansa was sitting. “He was in a rage, screaming and shouting about how his bride had been stolen. When it was communicated to him that Queen Sansa had run away of her own accord, he was inconsolable. He asked for a Northern whore, one who looked as much like his intended as I could manage for him. As it so happened, one from Winterfell had recently come into my employ. A beautiful girl however lowborn she was. Auburn hair, blue eyes, a sweet smile. Ros was eager to please and grateful for the chance to serve royal clientele.”

Sansa felt sick to her stomach at the story, unable to fathom the thought of Joffrey doing… she swallowed the bile in her mouth, squaring her jaw determinedly.

Theon tensed under her touch, the muscles in his jaw jumping as if this story had a similar effect on him. Did he know the dead girl? One look at a rather queasy-looking Robb told her that they both seemed to know who this 'Ros' was. She swiped her thumb along his knuckles, feeling him relax just the slightest bit at the action.

“The girl was brutalized. Mounted on the wall with crossbow bolts, mutilated in ways that I wouldn’t dare describe among such nobility. He killed her slowly and painfully, for no reason other than for his own entertainment. The girl after her, sweet Jayde, was split open with a Valyrian Steel sword. She was cut from her-”

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Daenerys interrupted, looking sufficiently repulsed by the tale. “Thank you for your testimony, Lord Baelish.”

* * *

"Did you know her?" Sansa asked quietly once they adjourned for the day, squirming closer to Theon under their covers. It was too warm to be bundled up, but she enjoyed the comfort that the blanket gave her. "The woman that Littlefinger spoke about?"

Theon hesitated for a moment. "It doesn't matter now."

Sansa lifted her head up from the pillows to look at her husband, eyes softening at how closed-off he seemed. "You can talk about it with me if you'd like to," she ran a hand along his smooth chest and Theon turned his head to lock eyes with her, looking like she had caught him off guard. "I know that you used to... _see_ other women. Jon always used to complain to Robb about how much coin you would spend at the winter town."

"Jon should learn to mind his own business," Theon retorted defensively. "I haven't been to a brothel in years, Sansa. You know I would never-"

The thought had occurred to Sansa once or twice at the beginning of their dalliance, back when she feared that Theon would tire of her after a few weeks of sneaking about. It was silly to think about now, especially when they were tangled up in one another. After everything they had been through, she didn't doubt his fidelity for a second. They were made for each other, she was certain of it.

If any two people in this world belonged together, it would be them; they were one heart, one flesh, one soul.

"I know," Sansa shushed him and peppered a tiny kiss onto his chin, aiming for the tip of his nose but missing it entirely. "But it's alright to grieve for her if that's what you need. I wouldn't judge you, Theon."

She felt him burrow into her when he buried his face in her neck. "I love you."

* * *

“Our suffering was all a game to him,” Tyrion was glaring at his nephew heatedly, not tearing his eyes away from Joffrey even once as he spoke.

No one dared to say a word.

“He thought it was _funny_ ,” Tyrion’s voice broke off, tears welled up in his eyes. “He laughed when he showed me her body, said it was a better death than most whores got.”

Sansa’s face fell the moment that Tyrion said Shae’s name, never in her wildest nightmares imagining that her friend could be dead.

She wanted to hurdle over Joffrey’s enclosure to strangle him until his face turned purple, to watch blood squirt out of his eyes as they popped open. She wanted him to _hurt_.

“He did what he _did_ to her and strung her up in my rooms like an animal,” he pounded a fist on the wooden bar in front of him. “Joffrey has always been a monster, a vicious idiot wearing a crown that he had no right to. He took the woman I loved from me because he was the king and he _could_. He announced to his small council that we were all his to torment. He ordered the slaughter all of Robert Baratheon’s bastards, including babes who were less than a year old. He would have had me killed before long if I hadn’t fled the city.”

Tyrion‘s eyes flashed with a darkness that Sansa was well acquainted with at this point. “Joffrey is not mad, Your Grace, he is evil.”

* * *

More people spoke. Servants, guards, advisors.

Everyone who once defended Joffrey had now turned against him, even members of his own family. Young Tommen Baratheon took the stand to hesitantly speak of how Joffrey would torture him as a child, and the way he had witnessed his brother treat Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell both.

The overseers of the trial whispered amongst each other for a few minutes before settling back in place.

“Joffrey Waters, you have committed grievous offenses against the realm and its people,” Daenerys started disdainfully, her voice somehow managing to be both hateful and detached. “By the Queen’s justice and in the sight of gods and men, you have been found guilty of the crimes of which you are accused.”

Sansa felt her insides freeze for a moment, pupils dilating as the words were spoken.

“I, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of My Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die by dragonfire.”

* * *

Even as Queen Cersei was brought into the Great Hall, she fought against the restraints of the goldcloaks escorting her.

“Cersei of the House Lannister, you have been charged-” Daenerys began speaking just to be interrupted.

“I demand a trial by combat,” Cersei roared, shaking with anger as she stared up at the queen who had brought upon the downfall of her family’s reign. “Did you hear me, you foreign whore? I demand a trial by combat!" She snarled then, the epitome of a ferocious lioness. "Only the gods can judge me, usurper!”

Daenerys turned to look at Tyrion from across the dais. He shrugged at her to which she sighed, annoyed that this would take longer than she initially planned. “Then you shall receive one. Guards, return the prisoner to the Black Cells.”

* * *

Theon was on his way to Robb’s chambers when he heard shouting.

He was stopping by so that they could drink together like they used to; they were still best mates, no matter the time that they were forced to spend apart because of this bloody war. It seemed that they hadn’t had a chance to sit and laugh about anything since Lannisport. His pride be damned, he missed Robb.

He was on time -a bit late, actually- but Robb seemed occupied by the sound of things.

His hand paused over the door with fear as soon as he recognized the voice shouting at him. Lady Catelyn’s wrath terrified him from the time he was a boy and she caught him nicking blueberry tarts from the pantry with Robb, until he was seventeen and she walked in on him with a hand up a serving girl’s skirt.

“I didn’t raise you to be this kind of man, Robb! Have you even given a thought to how Roslin will feel once she hears word of this? She’s had your _child_ and here you are, dallying with the most dangerous woman in the Seven Kingdoms, parading her about as if you're proud to betray your wife!”

"Don't talk about her like that!" Robb's voice came just as loud and impassioned as ever. "I love her, Mother-"

"What do you know of love?" Lady Stark bellowed, the sound making even Theon cringe. "Nothing! You're a stupid, selfish little boy with no regard for anyone but yourself. How can you stand here and tell me that what you feel is love when you _know_ the shame I've borne my entire _life_ for your half brother."

He decided against interrupting, knowing he had nothing substantial to add to this discussion.

 _Sorry Robb_ , he thought as he retreated quietly. He’d treat him to a drink later.

* * *

It surprised her that Cersei didn’t name her brother for a champion until she saw the person that she chose instead.

He was a terrible man, enormous and hulking.

He chopped his horse’s head clean off at the tourney thrown in her father’s honor, the one where she had been named Queen of Love and Beauty by Ser Loras. Sansa watched from the outskirts of the training yard as Ser Gregor Clegane bashed at the plush man-shaped figure, destroying the mannequin with three swift blows.

How could any man defeat him?

“Let me represent you on the field, my queen.” Ser Jorah spoke up from behind her, pleading ardently with Daenerys whose eyes were also fixed on the Lannister queen’s champion. “It would be my honor to slay him for you.”

“You would die,” Daenerys murmured softly, “I need you by my side, Ser Jorah, not buried in the ground. I would not have you die for me.”

“He would crush you into a pulp,” Arianne affirmed, leaning up against the column with a knowing look thrown at her uncle. They seemed to be two peas in a pod, always laughing and whispering together like the entire world was a joke to them.

“I’ll slay the Mountain myself, Your Grace.” Oberyn spoke up avidly, drawing the eyes of the other five people under the arches of the veranda.

Tyrion knitted his brows together and exchanged a glance with Jorah. “Yourself?”

“This is my revenge to taste, Lord Tyrion,” the Red Viper shot back, “The Mountain will face Dornish justice, and will die by my spear-”

“While I appreciate your enthusiasm, Prince Oberyn,” Daenerys intervened, her expression contemplative. “I have someone else in mind for the task.”

* * *

The small council was in the middle of drafting a trade doctrine between the Iron Islands and Dorne when the Kingslayer was dragged into the room by Obara Sand and Aggo, the pair of them looking quite odd in white cloaks and armor. 

Ser Barristan stared at his former brother at arms with disgust, and Lord Tyrion winced at the sight of his brother in such a state.

He looked like he hadn’t bathed in years, his unkempt hair hanging down to his elbows and a beard growing past his chin. The others merely watched on with mild intrigue at why the man had even been brought here in the first place.

Theon didn’t remember the Kingslayer well, but at the very least remembered him looking better than _this_.

“Decided my fate then, have you?” Jaime Lannister asked cynically, evidently not expecting to survive whatever Daenerys had planned for him.

In all honesty, Theon didn’t either.

How could he survive after the many crimes he had committed against the realm?

“I wanted to kill you the moment the Tully forces brought you to the capital,” Daenerys responded candidly. “I thought of all the ways I could do it. Beheading, dragonfire… I even thought to toss you into the pits and have Viserion rip you to shreds.”

“Why haven’t you then?” The Kingslayer asked, truly seeming curious about why he was still breathing.

“I’ve decided to grant you a chance at freedom.” Daenerys shocked everyone into silence within a few seconds, Theon most of all. Of all the times to exercise mercy, she chose now to do it? “Slay an opponent of my choosing and you will be allowed your freedom, Jaime Lannister.”

The Kingslayer looked suspicious of the offer. “That’s all? You’d let me go? Just like that?”

“You would be exiled to Casterly Rock for the remainder of your years and would not be held to your oaths to the Crown,” Daenerys explained. “You would not inherit the castle nor would you hold any lands of your own, but you would be permitted to take a wife and father children. It is your chance to start anew,” she had a spark in her eyes that frightened Theon more than he would care to admit. “If you win, that is.”

“I’ll do it,” the Kingslayer didn’t hesitate to take the unprecedented offer, recognizing a good deal when he saw one. “Who am I fighting?”

“Gregor Clegane,” Daenerys said impersonally.

Suddenly, all of the air seemed to be sucked out of the room.

Sansa didn’t even know yet and Theon could already feel her fury; he didn’t feel much differently than she did about the Lannisters. Of all the people who deserved a second chance, Jaime Lannister was the last of them.

Arianne openly laughed at the offer, recognizing it for what it was: irony.

The man tore the realm apart for a love affair with his sister, who he would either die for or inadvertently kill.

“Missandei,” Daenerys called out. “See that Jaime Lannister is bathed, clothed and fed to his satisfaction. He will be under Ser Aggo and Ser Perwyn’s guard until the trial.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Missandei nodded to Obara who shoved the Kingslayer back out of the door from whence they came.

* * *

The doors to Robb’s quarters were barely closed when Theon spun on his feet. “You have to talk some sense into her, Robb. We can’t let this happen.”

Robb’s brows shot up, immensely confused by the sudden ambush at the hands of his best friend and sister. “What?”

“The Kingslayer can’t be allowed to walk free,” Theon raged, anger seething within him at the prospect of it. “After what he did to your father, what he did to Jory, he can’t leave here with his head intact. How can you be alright with this? We grew up with Jory, sparred with him, rode with him, loved him like a brother. Jaime Lannister put a fucking knife through his eye and _your_ queen thinks to let him leave-”

“Have you seen the Mountain?” Robb interrupted him, not a single ounce of concern in his eyes. He laughed as if it were funny to him. “I doubt Jaime Lannister’s going to be walking anywhere.”

“Then Cersei walks free,” Sansa cut in harshly and Theon couldn’t help the triumphant smile on his face when she backed him up; they were a team, the two of them. His heart felt full when she put both hands on her hips, looking like a winter storm at his side. He felt a stirring in his trousers at the sight but shifted slightly so that it wasn’t evident. Not the time, Theon. “They’ve committed crimes against the entire realm, most of all against our family,” Sansa insisted, jabbing her finger against Robb’s chest. “This isn’t justice, Robb. It’s cruelty that will do nothing but sate your queen’s bloodlust.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Robb shouted, snapping under the pressure that the pair of them were putting him under. “To cause them pain? To kill at least one of them?”

“We want _justice_ ,” Sansa countered, stepping up to Robb as if she would shove him herself. “They should both be put to the sword, not be forced to play these stupid games.”

“It’s not too late to speak to her, Robb,” Theon suggested calmly, “try to change her mind.”

“I don’t have that kind of influence over her!” Robb insisted, his face and the tips of his ears a bright red.

“Don’t you?” Theon asked cruelly. He knew that the dig was low but couldn’t stop himself from making it all the same.

Robb reeled backward, betrayal clear in his eyes at being ganged up on.

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest next to him, both of them firm in their stance.

Robb left the room angrily and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

This was cruel.

Sansa held onto her mother’s hand tightly as people began filing into the pit, staring at Cersei Lannister as she settled into her seat. She almost looked like her old self despite the gauntness to her face; she had refused to eat in captivity, preferring to starve herself to death than face the queen’s justice.

She wore one of her old crimson and gold gowns and her hair was clean but unstyled and slightly shorter. The former queen raised her chin, prideful even when she was staring death in the face. Sansa had to respect her for it, no matter how she hated the woman.

Her mother let out a shaky breath as Ser Gregor stepped into the arena and beat on his hulking chest to the sound of bloodthirsty cheers. Brienne drew in a sharp breath behind her, invested in this fight a bit more than she would have been had someone else been fighting the Mountain. 

For all that Sansa resented how this came about, she couldn’t help but feel satisfied by the look of horror that crossed Cersei’s face when her twin brother strolled into the pit after him.

* * *

Cersei screamed as the Mountain was cut down by her brother.

Jaime had a deep wound in his stomach as he threw his sword onto the ground next to Ser Gregor’s corpse, stumbling away from the dead man despite his injuries. He dropped his broken helm to the ground in the process of looking up at the sky, drenched in blood and sweat.

He closed his eyes, amazed to be alive.

The Kingslayer looked confused at his sister’s reaction when her screech sounded through the pit, stepping towards where she was guarded by a number of goldcloaks and gazing up at her as if she was his reason for living. The sight disgusted Sansa as much as it fascinated her.

He thought this was _his_ trial, not hers.

Daenerys smirked from atop her high seat. “It seems that the gods have chosen your fate, Cersei Lannister.”

The Kingslayer caught on quickly. “Wait!”

Daenerys lifted a brow expectantly. “What is it?”

“You told me this was my trial.” Jaime found his voice, wildness in his eyes. “You can’t kill Cersei for this. You can’t- I didn’t know what I was agreeing to. It’s unjust to do away with her like this.”

“You presume to lecture me about what is just?” The silver queen’s nostrils flared. “You, the man who sank a sword through my father’s back? The man who lay with his own sister? The man who passed his own bastards off as princes and princesses? You are hardly in a position to declare this trial to be unjust.”

Jaime began protesting only to be cut off by Daenerys once more.

“The terms you agreed to were clear; you could live if you slew a man of my choosing. You represented your queen in Cersei Lannister’s trial by combat.”

“Please, Your Grace,” Jaime fell to his knees with a shamelessness that took Sansa by surprise. He had never allowed himself to be so vulnerable in his years as a prisoner of her family, nor did he sound as desperate as he was now. “Kill me instead. Let me stand with Cersei if she must die. I would rather die than live in a world without her. We entered this world together, and we must leave it together. Please, have some mercy, Your Grace. Kill us both or neither of us at all.”

“Nonsense,” Daenerys refused him with a callous smile. “You’ve _earned_ your freedom, Jaime Lannister.”

"Why?" The Kingslayer demanded, wetting his chapped lips with his tongue. "I killed your father. I threw Brandon Stark from a window, I passed my own children off as princes and princesses, it's all true!" People began muttering among themselves with surprise at his admission. "I deserve to die, Your Grace. So kill me."

His entire world seemed to burn with each word Daenerys spoke. “Life will be a punishment of its own for you, I suspect. You must live as the heir to nothing, as a knight to nothing, and a Queenslayer as well, it seems. Though that might be a technicality. The law is the law, Ser Jaime, and it has spoken.”

Cersei was silent, fuming to herself and lost in her own grief as blood seeped out of her deceased champion’s throat and all over the dirt beneath him.

“No, no, no,” Jaime shook his head vehemently. “You can’t do this.”

The begging continued and Sansa glanced over at Robb, noting that he didn’t look particularly bothered by this.

* * *

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Robb muttered, throwing his doublet onto the canopy bed. He began rolling his shirt sleeves up and carried about his business as if he expected his sister to tire of the conversation and leave. “No king or queen can make everyone happy.”

“There’s a difference between making people happy and killing people for sport, Robb.” Sansa argued, “her ruthlessness is madness in disguise-”

Robb scoffed a loud laugh as if she had just made the funniest jape in the world. “Seven Hells, Sansa, she isn’t mad. She’s pragmatic and stubborn, and yes, Sansa, sometimes she’s cruel. But she isn’t mad.”

Hot anger burst within her.

“You love her,” Sansa accused with nothing but spite and rage in her heart.

Robb sighed, long and slowly, as if he was an old man despite barely being twenty and three. “Yes, I love her. What of it?”

He didn’t even sound ashamed.

“Have you no shame?” Sansa was aghast at how little Robb seemed to care about his honor. “You have a wife, Robb. A wife who just bore you a son-”

“Aye, you never let me forget it,” Robb’s unsteady hand reached for the jug of wine on his desk, almost over-filling his goblet in the process of pouring it. “I know. I know that I’m dishonoring her and I know it’s terrible. I just- I tried not to act on it, Sansa, I did.” He exhaled shakily. “I didn’t want any of this. The war, the kingship, my marriage. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t choose any of it. Everyone else chose it for me. It’s all an endless wheel of duty and honor and courtesy, and it never fucking ends! It’s all-” Robb bit down on his wobbling lip to stop himself from losing himself in his rant.

Was he truly so unhappy? Had he always been? How hadn’t she seen it before?

“Dany is the one thing I’ve ever chosen for myself. I’m not Father, Sansa, no matter how hard I try to be. I’m selfish and dishonorable and every other word I’m sure you’re thinking about me.”

Sansa’s words were caught in her throat as her brother exploded on her, whirling around without an ounce of the control he typically carried himself with.

“At the end of this, I’ll have to leave her. She’ll be here and I’ll be in Winterfell, and it’ll just be another time that I’ve chosen duty over what I want.” He had tears in his eyes as he slammed his goblet back onto the table. “I allowed you and Theon to wed because I wanted you to have what I couldn’t. You can’t even begin to understand how I feel, Sansa, because I protected you from that. I protected you from having to watch him marry someone else, watch him love someone else, watch him get children on someone else. I did that for you because I _know_ how it feels.”

She once thought that he could learn to love Roslin with time. If he could grow so deeply infatuated with Talisa Maegyr over the course of a few weeks, it seemed like a simple fix. Now she knew better; if Robb had denied her in that tent, told her that he was sending Theon away, and promised to make her a better match, Sansa imagined that she would have run away just as Arya had done.

Why _her_ , though?

Of every woman he could have fallen for, why did it have to be the one with three dragons at her back?

“You get to be with the person you love, Sansa. You get to go home with Theon, raise children with him, grow old with him. I’ll never have that with her, no matter what I do.” Reluctant tears rolled down his cheek as Robb poured his heart out to her. “I love her, Sansa. She’s everything I’m not but she’s everything that I _am_.”

It may not have made any sense but it was the most romantic thing Sansa had ever heard.

“I can’t give my heart to anyone else, Sansa, not after knowing her.” Robb squeezed his reddened eyes shut and angled his face away with embarrassment. “Not after loving her. I’ll never forgive myself for hurting Roslin,” her brother’s voice cracked on his wife’s name as if it pained him to say it aloud. “But I know it in my soul that Daenerys… Gods, Daenerys... I belong to her in every way, no matter what anyone says.”

* * *

“I suppose you must be rather pleased with yourself,” Cersei mocked her as soon as Sansa sat down. Three maids were fretting over the former queen’s hair, trying to unknot her blonde curls slowly but surely. She wanted to look her best for the execution, as vain as ever until her last breath.

Ser Arys and Brienne took their positions on either side of Sansa. She was seated across from Cersei, sipping on her sweetwine comfortably.

“I don’t know why I would be,” Sansa countered. “I had next to nothing to do with this.”

Cersei appraised her for a moment.

“Of course you didn’t,” Cersei’s jaw ticked. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been a pretty little idiot. Chirping away at your songs and prayers."

“And yet, here we are.” Sansa retorted haughtily. “You’ll be ash in a matter of days while I rule a kingdom. I suppose I’ve done rather well for a pretty little idiot.”

“Calling the Iron Islands a kingdom is generous, you ungrateful wretch,” Cersei snapped. “I allowed you into my home and you repaid me with treachery-”

At that, Sansa felt indignation rise up within her. “I was your hostage, not your houseguest.”

“My hostage,” the other woman laughed, a strange bitter sound coming from her lips. “I fed you and clothed you and allowed you to play with my children as if you were my own daughter. You would have been the queen if you had some wits about you and a _sliver_ of gratefulness for how I protected you-"

"Protected me?" She repeated incredulously. "When did you ever protect me?"

“I thought it was you,” Cersei avoided answering the question, seemingly wrapped up in a world of her own. “I thought it was _you_ and then- that smirking _whore_ from Highgarden sunk her claws into him.” She cut herself off with a frustrated sob. “I should have known. I should have _known_ it would be the Targaryen bitch." Sansa blinked with confusion, watching on as Cersei Lannister began muttering to herself. "Robert warned me. He warned me about her and I didn’t listen, and now...” the former queen regent struggled against the many sets of hands in her hair, unconcerned with ruining it further. “Gold crowns, gold shrouds..."

It was like she wasn't even there anymore. 

"You once told me that love was poison," Sansa whispered to her, needing to say the words aloud. While love may have damned Cersei to the worst of deaths, it saved Sansa more times than she could count. Love was not a weakness to her; it was her salvation. "That it was sweet but it would kill me all the same. That loving anyone other than my children would be my downfall."

"It must be ironic to you," Cersei started humorlessly, her eyes focusing on Sansa once more. "That I should die like this while you still live."

"It is," Sansa smiled back at the woman as if they didn't loathe each other with every fiber of their beings. "I'll pray for you."

Cersei lowered her chin as if she could detect the insincerity in Sansa's tone, gnashing her teeth at either the implication that Sansa would pray for her damnation or at the fact that she was still minding her manners. "Of course you will," she gritted out, needing to get the last word in for the sake of her pride.

Now that, Sansa could not abide.

"Goodnight, Cersei." She gave her a mirthful look as she stood up, equal parts mocking and sinister. "Sleep well."

* * *

Robb didn’t meet her eyes when he strode past her, heading for a section partitioned off for House Stark. Catelyn offered Sansa a guarded smile as she walked at her son’s side, here out of duty more than anything else. She never enjoyed the sight of death, always choosing to stay in the castle when her lord husband had to carry out executions.

Sansa longed to sit beside her family but they were placed on opposite sides of the dragon pit, each house having put up their banners to signify the realm’s approval and unity.

Joffrey and Cersei both stood in the center of the pit, shackled and wearing their finest clothes for the occasion.

It almost looked as if they planned on attending a wedding and not their own death sentences.

“Queen Cersei of the House Lannister, wife to the Usurper Robert Baratheon and daughter to the traitor, Lord Tywin. You have been found guilty by the gods of the following crimes: high treason, adultery, incest, regicide, unlawful execution, attempted murder, torture, and conspiracy.” The queen’s voice was stern and cold, unfeeling for prisoners before her. “The Usurper Joffrey Waters, illegitimate son to Queen Cersei Lannister and the Kingslayer. You have been found guilty of the following crimes: high treason, unlawful execution, attempted murder, torture, rape, conspiracy, and the breaking of guest right.”

Joffrey’s chest heaved with panic at the sight of Drogon stalking in front of Daenerys, using the claws of his wings to propel him toward them.

The sight of him quivering with fear was everything that Sansa had wanted since the time she was a girl, standing on a bridge and looking up at her father’s severed head.

“I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.” Daenerys didn’t look half as happy as Sansa thought she would, though there did seem to be a hunger simmering behind her eyes as she gave her dragon the one-word command that laid armies to waste. “Dracarys.”

They screamed as fire engulfed them, the sounds as distressing as they were satisfying. Sansa wetted her lips as the flames licked at the tormentors of her past, the fire cleansing her as they burned.

* * *

Robb returned North almost a moon after the execution. He said his goodbyes hastily, his army already trudging along the Kingsroad. His men were all excited to return to their homes and families, drained and battle-wearied after so long in the South.

He had what remained of Ice at his side, two swords forged by Tywin Lannister in a final insult to House Stark. Robb would have a blacksmith at Winterfell attempt to restore the greatsword to its original glory, but for now, carried both at his side.

“You’ll always have a home with me in Winterfell,” Robb told her after they hugged each other goodbye, the pair letting bygones be bygones as they always had. They were family; even when they couldn’t stand each other, they still cared. “Never forget that, Sansa.”

“I won’t,” she murmured back before they parted ways for what could be years.

When Robb lunged towards Theon, Sansa turned to Brienne.

She had tasked her protector with escorting the Kingslayer back to Casterly Rock, not trusting anyone else not to just kill him and dump his body into the sea.

“Stay with him for as long as you need, Brienne.” Sansa took her guard’s hand with her own, still feeling the hesitance radiating off the woman for leaving her with only her husband and household guard to protect her. “I’ll be safe here.”

Brienne sighed resignedly and looked to Jaime Lannister on his horse with an unreadable expression. He was staring back at her intently, both hands on the reins of his steed.

Though he had been cleaned up since his sister’s trial, he had a miserable look to him; he hardly smiled at all, even when he bid his nephew-son and brother goodbye.

Sansa hadn’t been blind to the certain… affection that Brienne seemed to have fostered for the man at Riverrun. At some point between Sansa's visits to the dungeons, Brienne had struck up conversation with him, seeing past his bravado to uncover a broken man within.

A romantic part of Sansa hoped that the next smile to grace the Kingslayer’s lips would be Brienne’s doing.

“I’ll be back for you, my queen,” Brienne bowed once and though Sansa wished to hug her goodbye, she knew that such an action would only make her protector uncomfortable. Instead, she squeezed her fingers comfortingly. The corners of Brienne’s lips lifted slightly before she was on her way, hoisting herself onto a white horse and gestured for the Kingslayer to follow her.

When she turned back to Robb, he was whispering heated words to Daenerys, holding her face as he made what Sansa could only assume was a promise to his lover to visit soon. The Dragon Queen nodded forlornly in response to whatever he was saying, holding onto him in kind.

They came together with a searing kiss, the queen’s white dress clashing against Robb’s gray-and-black furs.

He held her gently as her arms looped over his shoulders, the pair molding together as if they would never part.

Sansa was shocked at how open the display of affection was, done in front of Roslin Frey’s own kin without a care for what they would think.

They didn’t seem to mind, for what it was worth, each going about their own business in anticipation of returning home.

When Robb finally mounted his horse and rode off to cheers of ‘King in the North’, Sansa felt another part of herself ebb away.

She was the last Stark in this city.

* * *

Tyrion had somehow managed to convince Daenerys that Tommen wasn’t a threat to her crown, the boy legitimized as a Lannister before the court.

He would be Tyrion’s heir in the event that he failed to father any children, a decree that shocked even Sansa into silence. Queen Daenerys extended the same courtesy for Myrcella in a royal writ, to appease the Dornish in the moons leading up to the wedding between the disgraced princess and their prince. They were good children, Sansa thought, nothing at all like Joffrey. They were like Martyn and Willem, simply cursed with the misfortune of being born into the wrong family.

Tommen would be sent to Casterly Rock soon enough, already betrothed to a Lefford girl to appease the westerners who had lost much in the war.

According to Theon’s accounts of the small council meetings, Tyrion would have to make a similar match soon enough, likely with one of his own cousins. His claim on the Rock was irrefutable now that he had been named Warden of the West, but the westermen were reluctant to accept him without an heir.

Sansa watched on as Tyrion’s schemes came to fruition, wondering how long his friendship with the queen would last.

* * *

Theon crawled beside her in the small hours of the night, his forehead scrunched up with worry. Sansa was too exhausted to ask him what had happened at his last meeting to put him in such a defeated mindset, so she merely curled up to him like a starfish would to glass.

“I hate this city,” he breathed into her hair.

She hummed in agreement. “Me too.”

* * *

The small council was having a run-of-the-mill conversation about credit, arguing about what to say in two weeks’ time when they would receive a representative of the Iron Bank.

Mace Tyrell was talking _again_. No surprise there.

Theon tapped his fingers against the wooden table with frustration. He hated any part of these meetings that weren’t about him, and quite frankly, he didn’t see why his opinion on taxing in the Stormlands should matter. One of Robert Baratheon’s bastards had been legitimized and instilled into the position, barely even a man. Lord Edric didn’t even know how money worked, much less how to collect taxes.

Not that Theon knew much about it either.

He paused.

Would he have to collect taxes from his men when he returned to the Iron Islands? Gods, he was grateful for whichever unlucky bloke would end up being his castellan. Theon was on the verge of falling asleep when Lord Varys -who had been notably absent that meeting- rushed in with three letters in hand.

One was from Robb; Theon could tell as much by the direwolf sigil on the piece of parchment.

The queen took the letter from him and her spymaster watched her carefully, as if gauging her reaction for himself. The man deeply unsettled Theon, something about his voice and perfumes making him feel like there were spiders crawling up and down his arms.

She read it once, and then twice, and then a time after that.

Now she had their full attention, most of them wondering what in all of the gods of fire and fuck could render Daenerys Targaryen speechless.

“Is this true?” She asked, her voice low and tinged with disbelief. She didn’t tear her gaze away from the paper, even when Varys began responding in that drawn-out way that he always did.

“There seems to be ample evidence of it, Your Grace.” He started splaying the papers out in front of her. “I have a missive from Lord Howland Reed detailing the circumstances of the boy’s birth, and a report from the Citadel citing a High Septon’s journal as evidence of the union. I’m sure that my little birds could find more information if you are unconvinced, my queen.”

Daenerys didn’t move to even touch any of the pages in front of her, instead rereading the same line from Robb’s letter over and over again, her brows drawing together in the process. “Blood of my blood,” she whispered, almost too quiet for anyone to hear before standing up in her seat. Everyone followed suit. “I will go North to see the validity of these claims for myself. Immediately. Tell Irri to ready my winter clothes.”

“North?” Tyrion repeated doubtfully before grabbing at the letters, shoving Robb’s aside to get a look at the one sent from the Citadel.

“Jon Snow is a man of the Night’s Watch, Your Grace.” Varys started, the mention of Jon getting Theon even more antsy. “Although he would have a claim to the throne, his vows prevent him from attempting to take it for himself. Killing him would only cause strife with the Starks, dear as he is to your...  _friend_ , King Robb. It would only be detrimental to your rule to address the rumors with anything other than indifference, my queen.”

“I have nothing to fear from him or his alleged birthright,” Daenerys interrupted coolly, “I am the queen whether or not another heir lives.”

“What?” Theon interrupted dumbly, his outburst drawing their attention to him. “I don’t know which Jon Snow you’re talking about, but the one I know’s a bastard. His father is Eddard Stark. He’s my own wife’s half-brother. I don’t know what that letter of yours says, but I grew up with him. The man’s a Stark through and through.”

Whatever the spymaster told her was baseless, Theon knew. What business would _Jon Snow_ have claiming anything, let alone some chair in the South that he didn’t give two shits about? These reports weren’t worth anything at the end of the day- the spymaster told them not a moon ago that Jon had been stabbed to death at Castle Black, only to rescind the claim a week later, stating that he was mistaken and that the chap was alive and well.

Sansa had been inconsolable for days, due to some amateur mistake that a bald man in a robe made.

Tyrion was shaking his head with disbelief, seemingly stunned into silence.

That was a first.

Daenerys took pity on those of them who hadn’t gotten to look at the scandalous letters and explained. “Robb claims that Jon Snow is the product of an affair between Lyanna Stark and my elder brother, Rhaegar. That Eddard Stark claimed him as his own to protect him from the Usurper’s wrath.”

Scarily enough, Daenerys couldn’t stop smiling. “If this is true, he is my nephew. I will relieve him of his vows, bring him to the capital, and legitimize him as my heir presumptive. He could take Dragonstone off our hands and make a home there,” her eyes sparkled with hope at having family somewhere in the world. “He could restore the Targaryen dynasty if he truly is my brother’s son.”

Ah. 

So she hoped to renew her family's former glory.

Mace Tyrell’s eyes lit up instantly as if he had just struck gold. “He could wed my daughter Margaery, Your Grace-”

Tyrion snickered, not seeming too surprised by the Master of Coin’s thought process.

“I’ll keep that offer in mind, Lord Mace,” Daenerys responded politely. “Your daughter will, of course, be considered as a consort for my nephew if he is indeed my kin for true. For now, I must investigate these claims for myself. I will ride for Winterfell within the next hour, my lords. This meeting is adjourned.”

Daenerys strode out of the room, a skip in her step as she left them on their own.

“So… with our queen absent, who deals with the Iron Bank?” Oberyn Martell twisted his quill around in his hand, glancing from person to person as he spoke.

Theon didn’t want to sit through this.

Why was he even here?

He barely knew how to budget properly. Couldn’t Mace Tyrell handle this on his own?

“I know a fair bit about bargaining,” Tyrion started and Theon never wanted to bash his own head into a wall more.

* * *

Daenerys returned after two weeks with Jon Snow in tow.

He was as sullen as ever, a range of new scars covering his face.

He stepped off of her dragon’s back lithely, eyes immediately finding Sansa’s in the crowd of people. He didn’t dare step forward when they locked eyes but ended up not needing to. Sansa tackled him into an embrace that her mother certainly would have languished over if she was here and not in Riverrun.

Jon inhaled deeply as his arms came around his sister, the pair too wrapped up in each other to see Daenerys eyeing them longingly.

She was as much Jon’s kin as Sansa was, but they had yet to make such a connection with one another.

The man was more wolf than dragon, but he was Rhaegar’s offspring all the same.

* * *

“I’ve decided to give you leave to return to the Iron Islands,” Daenerys told them when they were settled around the table in her solar.

Sansa froze in place, mulling over why she would command such a thing after only three-and-a-half months of serving her. They got on well enough now that Robb had gone back North, and Theon seemed to be on-track with the rebuilding of her fleet.

“Why?” Theon asked the question on Sansa’s mind, looking a touch offended at the dismissal.

“Your brother pled his case to me when I was in Winterfell,” Daenerys admitted candidly. “It is in the Crown’s best interest that the Iron Islands know exactly who they follow. It would be a true shame if there were… misunderstandings between our kingdoms that spurred on talk of rebellion. I trust that you will uphold your end of our agreement from the Iron Isles in the event that you choose to leave the city.”

Sansa couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in her head.

“I understand that you have been away from home for quite some time. I would offer you the chance to return now. You may stay here if you so choose, but I recognize that the Iron Islands needs to see their king if they mean to rebuild.”

Theon’s voice was raspy when he spoke. “What about the master of ships?”

“You will send a representative of your choosing,” Daenerys explained, Tyrion quiet at her side. He didn’t seem to have much to say about this alliance; as much as he enjoyed Sansa’s company, his loathing for Theon was poorly concealed. “Of course, the completion of your project will be carried out on the Iron Islands rather than in the capital. We can have an envoy prepare the raw materials for the ships and have them delivered to your closest port on a regular schedule. When the job is complete, you will only be held to the promise of keeping the peace with my kingdoms while you rule yours.”

* * *

“Don’t be a stranger,” Jon smiled weakly as Sansa told him the news, brushing his horse with a calmness that she couldn’t imagine having in his position. “And remember to write to me while you’re away. It can get lonely here.”

“I doubt that very much,” Sansa couldn’t help her impish grin when she thought of all of the notice he had received since his legitimization, nearly every girl in the capital desperate to marry their new brooding prince. Daenerys had shocked her by allowing Jon his pick of a wife, stating that she wanted him to pick a bride of his heart’s choosing rather than one she would select for him.

He didn’t seem too sweet on any of them yet, a little frightened by the attention, but he didn’t seem to be in any rush. When Sansa pressed him on the issue, he went scarlet and insisted that he had more important things on his mind than girls.

Jon was just as much a slave for duty now as he was when they were younger, so she supposed he would pick someone eventually.

No matter the woman’s scheming, a part of Sansa hoped that it would be Margaery Tyrell. If anyone deserved happiness, it was the girl who put up with Joffrey for the better half of the war. It didn't hurt her case that she was beautiful, as well.

“Shut up,” Jon laughed, sufficiently embarrassed by her jab at him. “I’ll miss you, Sansa. It was nice having a familiar face here, however short it was.”

Sansa felt her heart swoop a bit, saddened at the thought of leaving Jon alone in this nest of vipers.

If she could, she would whisk him away with her and drop him off at Winterfell.

But she couldn’t.

“I’ll miss you too, Jon.” Sansa smiled back at him a little wistfully. “I’ll write to you every week. You have to tell me _everything_ , alright?”

He chuckled. “Aye. And you’re free to visit me in Dragonstone if it’s what you want.”

“It is,” Sansa beamed over at him, her heart clenching at the sight of her brother-cousin looking at her with such affection. It was everything she hoped for the first time she penned a letter to him in Riverrun all of those years ago. “And I will. I’ll visit you the first chance I get, Jon. You won’t get away from me that easily.”

“Now _that_ I believe,” Jon laughed, a rare sound coming from him.

They didn’t have much longer until she left, but she was glad that she was spending her final hours in the capital with him.

* * *

She rushed toward Bran the moment she arrived at Winterfell’s gates, almost weeping at the sight of the brothers she hadn’t seen in years.

Bran laughed as she bent over his chair to squeeze at him, his voice deeper than she had ever remembered it. What happened to the little boy she once knew? Here he was, a man grown, smiling in the same silly way that Robb did when he was flustered.

“You’ll strangle me if you keep at it, Sansa,” Bran patted her back warmly and continued poking fun at her even when she pulled away. “Gods, you’re practically a giant.”

“Isn’t she?” Theon played along, dodging Sansa’s elbow to hug Bran for himself. “If she grows any more, I’m like to crack my neck looking up at her.”

“And _I’m_ like to crack your neck if you keep at it,” Sansa griped, her voice still pleasant even as Theon blew a raspberry at her before making for Robb.

She could hear them shouting at one another jovially when her youngest brother bound up to her, almost knocking her over when she turned to him. “Rickon! Gods, you were a _baby_ the last time I saw you.”

“I don’t remember the last time I saw you,” Rickon was just lost under his shaggy hair, his dark wolf circling around them with excitement. “I did miss you, though. Shame that you didn’t bother inviting me to your own wedding,” he clicked his tongue but couldn’t keep the game up, laughing when Sansa tried to explain herself to him.

Their mother was still in Riverrun, hoping to help Edmure recover from the torture inflicted upon him.

Sansa tried not to cry when it began gently snowing in the yard as they reunited, marveling at how beautiful it was.

There were no politics, no Dragon Queen, no war, no nobles…

Robb and Roslin were standing beside each other in their furs, a handsome couple despite the distance between them. The Queen in the North approached Sansa with a warm smile, holding a bundle up to her. “Your nephew, dear goodsister, Little Ned Stark.”

She almost melted when she cradled the babe for herself, a little boy with tufts of curly light brown hair and eyes of a deep Tully blue. He was beautiful, looking especially Northern with a long face that he only could have inherited from his grandfather.

Sansa wondered if her children would look like this too, envisioning a little girl who looked just like Arya when she bounced the child in her arms. Ned reached a chubby hand forward and smacked her right in the nose, the action encouraging Sansa to hug Robb’s son closer to her.

* * *

They were looking at the statue of their father together, commissioned by Robb once he arrived back at home. It looked like him, as much as stone could resemble a person.

“I hardly remember him,” Rickon admitted as if it was a great shame to have been a child when their father had been decapitated in the capital.

“He was a good man,” Sansa consoled him, still looking at the gentle carving of her father’s face. “Honorable, decent. He was the best of them all. He loved you so much, Rickon. He would have done anything for you. For all of us, really. He loved us more than anything in the world.”

Rickon swallowed and Sansa could see him look at her from her peripheral vision. “I wish he could be here.”

“He is, in a way,” Sansa smiled for true, comforted by the thought of her father watching over them. “Every Stark buried in these crypts look after us, Rickon. They guide us, even when they’re naught but ghosts in our halls.”

“I wish Arya was here,” he whispered next. “I was sad when I heard that she ran away. I really wanted to see her again. Bran said she stole Theon’s bow and arrow every morning before her lessons.”

That sounded about right.

It also answered her years-long question about why Arya was always late to their morning sewing circle with Septa Mordane, Jeyne, and Beth.

“She’ll come back,” Sansa assured him, needing to believe the words for herself. She imagined that Arya and Gendry were living like the pirate and princess of Theon’s story, traveling the world together with nothing but the love they bore each other. She supposed it was a bold assumption to think that they were in love, but it was what she chose to believe. “Just you wait.”

“I don’t want you to leave too, Sansa,” Rickon whined and Sansa frowned, knowing she couldn’t stay here for very long no matter how much she wanted to.

“You could visit me at Pyke,” Sansa offered with a glint in her eye, “You could squire for Theon or learn how to sail on the open seas. Perhaps you could even get yourself a ship to captain wherever you pleased.”

Rickon perked up at the offer, mind already scattered in a million different places. “Really?”

Mother would kill her for planting the idea in his head, but it was worth it all for the wild grin she received when she nodded coyly. “Really.”

* * *

Bran took a liking to Shireen, Sansa noticed, encouraged by her to take up the arts.

Sansa watched him practice reading poetry in front of the former princess before dinner one night, spinning in his wheelchair with each changing verse.

He was reading out a tale about the great mystery night at the Tourney of Harrenhal, voice shifting to impersonate each character like a true mummer in an attempt to impress his intended. For all that Sansa worried that they might not like each other, it seemed that they had embraced the match better than expected.

She just barely restrained himself from cooing out loud when Shireen bounced out of her seat and burst into applause for Bran.

* * *

They awoke to the sound of birds chirping and snow falling, the fireplace still burning from the previous night.

There was no pain for either of them here- only love and the memories of a sweet childhood.

Sansa giggled when Theon tugged her back onto her small childhood bed and into his arms, reasoning that they could afford to be a little late to the Great Hall. When his hand slipped beneath her smallclothes, she forgot all about breaking their fast.

They feasted on cold eggs and sausages a little over an hour and a half later, the pair of them lounging in bed as they tried to mask the taste of their food with the sweet sauce that Theon nicked from the kitchens.

* * *

They had been in Winterfell for two months when Summer gave birth to a litter of pups.

There were five of them, each yapping louder than the other as Beth helped Sansa tuck them into their fur bed. Bran’s direwolf was antsy, just seeming to want to get away from her offspring as they yowled for her. None of them could be sure who the father of the pups was, the culprits being the other three adult direwolves. They were her brothers, but wolves didn’t care about that to Sansa’s slight horror. None of them seemed concerned about the new litter with Shaggydog and Grey Wind out hunting, and Ghost standing vigil for Ned in his owner’s absence.

 _The South is no place for a direwolf_ , Jon had sighed when Sansa asked him where his protector was.

She hoped he sent for Ghost once he got settled into Dragonstone in due time and was free of the capital’s clutches.

“You should take that one,” Bran announced suddenly, pointing to the noisy cream-colored pup in her arms with conviction. “She likes you.”

Sansa felt a dull ache in her chest.

She couldn’t replace Lady, not when she still dreamed of her lost pet years after her death. Sweet Lady, who died because Sansa hadn’t defended Arya when she had the chance. Little Lady, who deserved a full life with her littermates up North but was instead buried in the crypts beneath them.

“I couldn’t,” Sansa gently put the wolf back down onto the makeshift fur bed. “A direwolf’s place is in the North.”

“All the more reason for you to take her,” Bran maintained, confusingly adamant about the issue. “What are you going to do when you’re out there alone on an island? And your children? They’ll be direwolves as much as they’ll be krakens. These wolves were meant to protect our family, no matter where we are.”

“Why do you want me to take her so badly?” Sansa turned to her brother confusedly as Beth urged Summer back into her bed to feed her spawn.

“I want you to have a part of home with you when you leave,” Bran reasoned.

Sansa retrieved the pup back from where she had started howling for attention, looking straight into her eyes.

They were golden like Lady’s but her head was covered with a light smattering of brown. It looked like dirt on her face, the sight of it reminding Sansa a little bit of Arya. It was like the direwolf had seen straight into her soul.

Sansa sighed and allowed the pup to lick at her face, accepting that she had already given a piece of her heart to the sweet wolf.

* * *

Lady Catelyn’s party arrived at Winterfell eventually, in much better spirits than when she was at the capital. She hugged her youngest children at the gates, swearing on her life that she would never leave them -or the North- again for any reason.

* * *

When the pups were old enough to wander around the castle by themselves, one of the dogs took to following Theon around. She was a sandy-colored wolf with a bright face and an affinity for breakfast rolls. Though he pretended not to notice his new shadow, Sansa caught him feeding scraps of food to her underneath the dinner table when he thought no one was looking. Eventually, he embraced the pet as his own with Bran’s blessing.

“I think I’ll name you something ferocious,” he rubbed at the direwolf’s stomach as she rolled around in their chambers, preening at the attention. “How about… Sea Storm? No, a little too on the nose. Isn’t that right?”

Sansa tried not to laugh from where she was rolling a ball back and forth for Jonquil’s entertainment, the direwolf still as wild as ever despite all of her training.

“I think I’ll call you…” his voice softened as the wolf yawned, not understanding a lick of what he was saying. “The Iron Price.”

Sansa couldn’t believe this.

“That’s a horrible name,” she protested, not wanting his sweet little companion to be named something so… terrible. Even Shaggydog was a better name than that.

“You’re not in a place to judge,” Theon tickled his dog’s stomach, casting an indicative look at Sansa’s own direwolf. "With a name like _Jonquil_."

“Jonquil is a far better name than iron price,” Sansa disagreed fervently.

“It’s _The_ Iron Price, not iron price.” Theon corrected her with an unbearable smirk that made her want to strangle him and straddle him all at once.

“It’s still horrid,” Sansa shot back, unable to argue any further.

“Your mother just doesn’t understand you like I do,” he whispered to his wolf, grinning victoriously when she yipped in response to him. 

* * *

Catelyn was stitching away at a one-piece for little Ned when Sansa entered the room. She had been relatively reclusive since her return home, withdrawn for reasons that weren’t difficult to determine. Only one candle illuminated her chambers, the side of her face cloaked in darkness as she worked without rest.

“Mother?” Sansa whispered, not wanting to disrupt the woman if she wanted to be alone.

“Sansa,” Catelyn smiled over at her, looking worse for wear. Her hair was disheveled like she hadn’t brushed it in weeks, and large circles were etched underneath her eyes. “I didn’t hear you enter. Come in, sweetheart.”

She entered hesitantly, having no true idea how Catelyn was dealing with the news that Lord Eddard had lied to her for their entire marriage, that he had never betrayed her in the way that everyone had come to believe. Sansa found it hard to believe herself; Jon was _Jon_ , her brother no matter who his mother was. A part of her still expected this to be an elaborate jape set up at her brother’s expense, though she knew from the documents ratified by Daenerys herself that it was at least true in the legal sense.

“How was Uncle Edmure when you left him?” Sansa inquired kindly, honestly concerned for her uncle’s wellbeing. As obnoxious as he had been when they spent several months together at the Twins, he was still her flesh and blood. A beheading didn’t seem like the justice Ramsay Snow deserved after what he did to him, but it was all the Blackfish had dealt him. “Better, I hope?”

“He’s coming back to himself,” her mother assured her as her sewing needle dipped in and out of the baby clothes. “Slowly but surely. He’ll be married within the year.”

“Married?” Sansa couldn’t fathom the idea of her once cocksure uncle, now a broken man, doting over a wife and children. “To whom?”

“A sweet girl from the Westerlands. Queen Daenerys arranged the match for him,” Catelyn explained with an odd look on her face, not quite happiness but not quite suspicion. “Her name is Jeyne Westerling. She’s a sweet girl, and pretty too from what I’ve heard. They’ll be married in a year’s time, by the looks of it. She’ll be good for him. Riverrun needs a woman's touch.”

Her mother didn’t say much more, and Sansa couldn’t help but ask the question weighing on both of them. “Mother, did Jon-”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Sansa,” her mother’s voice was raw and pained, sadder than Sansa had ever heard her. “Not right now.”

* * *

Roslin scooped their son out of his crib without sparing a glance at her husband, cradling the babe in her arms before going about her business.

Theon was frozen, his chalice lifted to his lips as his best mate’s queen came and left without a word spoken to either of them, wearing a vibrant green gown that looked much like something that Lady Stark would wear.

It was baffling to him, to see Robb’s little wife resent him so when his last memory of her was of the girl staring up at him like he hung the moon and stars all by himself. A public affair with a neighboring queen would do that, though.

The door was shut quietly behind her when Theon turned to his friend with a sympathetic grimace. “She still not speaking to you then?”

“Not since I got back,” Robb confided in him with a sigh. “I deserve it, I know. I was an idiot to think she wouldn’t care. I tried to tell her she could take a lover of her own when she asked me about it and she chucked a pot right at my head, nearly took it clean off.”

“Roslin did?” Theon found it hard to imagine but he supposed a woman scorned was capable of anything. As much as he loved Robb, the man had done this to himself. Had he been a little better at keeping his affair hidden, he might not have this issue; better yet, if he just hadn’t acted on whatever he felt for his queen, he would have been better off. Robb’s offer to her was a revelation of its own. “Wait, you asked her to take a _lover_?”

He knew Robb wasn’t stupid and yet here he was, saying the most idiotic shit Theon had ever heard in his life.

Robb shrugged like it made perfect sense to him. “We already have an heir. I won’t betray Daenerys, not by word or deed. I wouldn’t stand in the way of Roslin finding love.”

“Do you even hear yourself, you nitwit?” Theon couldn’t restrain himself this time. “She loves _you_ , Robb. She spent over a year waiting for you to get here and making this place her home, just for you to toss her aside. Gods, man, how hard is that to understand?”

“I don’t-” Robb clenched his fists and looked away from Theon, looking very much like he wanted to storm out of the castle and scream aloud. “I care about her, Theon. You know I do.”

He did.

He recalled the morning after their wedding, when Roslin ran down to break her fast wearing only her nightgown, Robb chasing after her like they were young children. Catelyn had sent them back upstairs before they could cause too much of a stir, ordering a servant to bring them breakfast in bed.

Theon remembered that day especially well; it was the morning after his first kiss with Sansa in Riverrun’s godswood. He had been terrified that Robb would _know_ somehow and have him flogged for taking liberties with his sister. To Theon’s relief, Robb barely left his chambers that entire morning and afternoon.

Robb had been so happy when Roslin told him that she was with child, spinning her around until they were both dizzy on their feet.

He might not have loved her then, but Theon thought that he could have if not for the war.

Mayhaps if Roslin had been by his side when he went to treat with the Dragon Queen, things would be different now.

“If you say so,” Theon raised his tankard to his lips, not wanting to spoil their evening with pointless chatter. Robb would love his Dragon Queen no matter what he said or did. If that was where his heart led him, nothing would deter him from it as Theon well knew; Starks were stubborn like that.

* * *

It was their last day in Winterfell and they found themselves in the godswood.

They couldn’t afford to spend any more time off of the Iron Islands, no matter how much Sansa wagered Theon would have preferred to stay in Winterfell as well. The castle was a bit crowded with all of them in it, especially with the new babe screeching at every hour of the night.

The wolves were playing in the snow near the springs, yipping and biting at each other senselessly as they brawled. They were a true pack now, with nearly ten direwolves roaming about Winterfell.

“We can come back,” Theon offered as they stared up at the red leaves above them, one falling to the ground beneath them as he spoke. “Or we can go to Riverrun. Highgarden, Dorne, Meereen, Lys, Sothoryos,” he listed off all the places that came to mind. “We’re free to do whatever we want now. Go wherever we want.”

Theon looked like he belonged here, with snowflakes sticking to his hair and eyes the same color as the frozen pool of water beside them.

“I’ll go anywhere so long as it’s with you,” Sansa smiled over at him, not the slightest bit afraid at how true the words rung.

Something in his face lit up and as if he couldn’t hold himself from it any longer, he bent forward to kiss her softly. “I have a surprise for you,” he rushed out with an excited look on his face, bits and pieces of the sun shining in his smile.

Her stomach fluttered with exaltation, expecting some sort of gift from him.

It seemed like a new piece of jewelry materialized from nowhere every few days, though she was hardly complaining. It made her feel incredibly special when Theon dropped a pair of pearl earrings into her hand over supper, and procured an onyx-encrusted bracelet during their third ride into the wolfswood.

He unwrapped a piece of parchment to Sansa’s puzzlement.

It was a drawing of a… house? Illegible words cluttered the side of the shoddy picture and Sansa bit back a smile.

“It’s a lovely drawing, Theon.” She placated him sweetly, not wanting to do or say anything negative when he was grinning at her like the happiest man alive.

He looked a little unimpressed by her words.

“Very funny, love. Look,” he pointed to the triangular top of the house, sighing when she didn’t catch on. “It’s a greenhouse, Sansa.”

“A greenhouse?” Sansa didn't quite understand why Theon would draw something like that. He had no interest in gardening, to her knowledge. Perhaps he wanted to take it up now that the war was over.

“I know it’s not much, or the biggest but it’s a start, don’t you think?” He was needlessly nervous, shifting his weight between both legs. “We could put anything you want in it. Plant every flower you want there, together. You still have those seeds from King's Landing, don't you?”

“You…” she was breathless as if she had been running for miles and miles, gingerly holding the edges of the parchment like she was scared that she would tear it. “A greenhouse? For Pyke?”

“For _home_ ,” Theon corrected her gently. His eyes were watching her carefully, trying to spot any shift in her expression to tell him whether he had done well or not.

Sansa threw her arms around him, a tenderness building in her heart that she didn't know quite how to stifle. His hands settled at her waist, holding her like the springtime lover she had dreamed about as a girl. He was her Florian, her Duncan, her Durran, the very embodiment of everything she had ever wanted.

There was a sweet irony in that she spent hours here every day, knelt before the weirwood tree as a young girl, praying that she would find a love worthy of songs. Someone brave, gentle, and strong, Father had said. Had he ever suspected that the man he spoke of had been right in front of her the entire time? She wondered what he would think now, seeing them kiss each other beneath the godswood they had grown up in.  _Young love_ , he would probably shake his head and smile. 

In that world -a beautiful one of Sansa's creation- he would be by her mother's side once more, whispering apologies and reassurances to her until she was whole once more, and Robb would build the tallest of snow castles with his son, and Arya would cackle through the halls with a not-so-little Rickon, and Bran would get to be a child for a bit longer before having to marry, and Jon would be here with them, laughing with snowflakes in his hair and joy in his ever-sullen eyes. 

When Sansa connected their lips once more, she savored in the one part of her would-be world that would stay the same. 

* * *

 

He held his breath from the moment that they docked in Lordsport to when Sansa stepped off the ship, drinking in her surroundings as her feet touched the sand beneath her. Their welcoming party watching her with veiled interest, all wanting to get a look at her to gauge for themselves if she had enough iron in her veins to be their salt queen. Theon couldn't tear his gaze away from her though, equal parts terrified and proud to finally see her here, in their modest kingdom.

Did she hate it? Her blue eyes clung to the sand, the rocks, the sea, the castle, before finally making their way back to him, back to _home_.

The Iron Islands were dreary and humble, and Sansa had spent her entire life fantasizing about some grand Southron keep where the sun shone and the birds chirped. It would break his heart to see her unhappy, though he would do anything to remedy the situation for her even if it led to his ruination.

He would do anything for her, _anything,_ even if it cost him a kingdom. He would pass his crown to his sister if it meant that he could take Sansa to a place that would make her smile; even if it meant he lost his lands and titles, he would do it for her if she asked it of him. 

Sansa turned to him with a winning smile on her face, looking as nervous as he felt, and his heart swelled at the sight of it.

"I love it," she proclaimed breathlessly and he felt his insides flutter. For all of his idiocy as a boy, he was never so grateful that his pride had led him to her. He never knew love like this before her gentle hands reached into his chest and cradled his heart with a tenderness he wasn't sure he deserved, even now.

* * *

The first time Sansa tried to swim in the sea ended in disaster.

It began raining shortly after they had managed to get waist-deep in the chilly water. The rain quickly turned into a storm and before long, she and Theon were running for their lives.

They squealed, drenched in a blend of rainwater and seawater, as they fled toward the castle.

* * *

“What’s Arianne Martell doing here?” Theon asked, his mouth stuffed with bread and cheese across their little table in the Sea Tower. Asha had just returned from a trading trip to Dorne, gone by the time Theon and Sansa first arrived at Pyke, but now was here with a princess in tow. "And when can she leave?”

Theon disliked Arianne immensely, likely because she openly mocked him in court on  more than one occasion. Though Sansa advised him not to take it personally, Theon let every slight fester in his heart.

Sansa squeezed her lemon over top the sea bass on her plate, suppressing the urge to remind Theon of his table manners. A servant poured Asha some more wine as Jonquil pawed at Sansa’s chair, whining for some more scraps of food.

Asha eyed the dog warily but said nothing of it, fonder of Sansa’s rambunctious pet than Theon’s calm one. She flicked a piece of her lettuce in Theon’s direction. “What’s it to you, fish face?”

Theon’s eyes narrowed and he flung a bread roll at her. Watching them interact put a small smile onto Sansa’s face, reminding her of Arya, wherever she was. “Fuck off.”

“She’s my guest,” Asha smirked and there was something underneath it, suggestive and secretive. “You’d best not ask, little brother.”

Theon caught on to what she was saying and scoffed aloud, his next insult prepared on his tongue when Sansa cut in. “Be nice.”

Asha laughed huskily, enjoying Sansa’s company more than either of them had expected when they first met. “Hear that? Your rock wife thinks I’m right.”

“Traitor,” Theon muttered under his breath, lightly squeezing her thigh under the table.

* * *

Theon taught her how to swim on her back a few weeks into settling in at Pyke. There were children from Lordsport playing in the water around them, splashing each other as they mingled with the nobility. It was nice, no matter how it shocked Sansa at first, to see the common folk so comfortable with them.

She kept raising her head as she floated, wanting to see what was going on and desperately afraid that the salty water would get in her eyes.

One of Theon’s hands hovered underneath her in the water as he smoothed her wet hair back with his other.

“Lean back, love, relax a little. Trust me, Sansa,” he grinned. “I won’t let you drown.”

She swallowed her fear and did as he said, letting out an astonished yelp when water rushed into her ears.

Sansa floated in the water despite the sudden sensation, feeling more free than ever before.

* * *

She was sitting on a rock at the edge of the beach, staring out at the water in front of her. Pyke was different than she had imagined but it was beautiful in its own way, the rough winds pushing the low tides against her bare feet. She had been on the beach since the morning, wearing a long billowy grey dress with a dark green woolen shawl over it. Her hair was loose and wild, goosebumps littering her arms as she sat contentedly.

Winter would come soon, that was for certain. It would be upon them in a matter of months.

Sansa kicked her feet in and out of the water, toying with the clamshell that she collected for the day. It was a habit of hers, to find the prettiest shells and rocks, and put them into a wooden box in her chambers.

She heard Theon approaching her but continued staring out at the sea and skies; the sight of it was beautiful and rough, grey clouds tinged with green and grey over top a steel-touched blue.

He settled beside her, sitting on a rock a step beneath her own. “Fancy a swim?” Theon grinned, leaning toward her as if he planned to grab her by the waist and throw her into the sea himself.

“Not today,” Sansa murmured warmly, placing a hand on his. She turned her gaze to him, heavier than usual.

He raised an eyebrow at her in question but she couldn’t find the words that she was searching for. Instead she lifted his hand to her stomach, trying to convey every word that was locked away inside of her with a simple touch.

He was quiet for a moment.

“Are you sure?” Theon questioned, eyes wide with delight.

She barely managed a nod when he practically tackled her, her overjoyed laughter swallowed up by Theon’s lips on hers. Sansa held onto his shoulders tightly, savoring their shared joy over the new Greyjoy to come.

Sansa loved him deeper than she ever could have imagined when they were crammed in the lower deck of a ship together, their fates uncertain and only a smidgen of trust between them. She loved him more with each rise of the tide, and even more with each wave that crashed against the rocks.

It almost felt like she was a storm herself, and he was the sweet shore that she would always return to, steadfast and adoring.

Once she thought that her song ended the day that Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell, that she would never have a beautiful story of her own with only a miserable excuse for a tragedy in its place. 

She was wrong. 

It was only the beginning and it was worth _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s a wrap, people! Did I mention that I'm a sucker for a happy ending? Also: White Walkers don't exist in this verse because I say so.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking around for this long- I've really appreciated how supportive and amazing you all have been omg. I've got a Robb/Dany one-shot and Gendry/Arya fic in the works in this verse because I grew super attached to them along the way.
> 
> Thank you all for reading again- comments and kudos are always appreciated! Love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> follow me at targaryenstyrell on tumblr!


End file.
